For the Love of the Game
by brokenbottleaurora
Summary: "The game doesn't stink, Mr. Wheeler. It's a great game." Stories written for games or competitions that I don't want to post as stand alone one-shots. First chapter is a Table of Contents with titles and summaries that is updated regularly.
1. Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Chapter 1- Table of Contents

Chapter 2- "Too Little, Too Late"- Regulus wants out, but Sirius thinks it's too little, too late.

Chapter 3- "As An Old Friend"- Ignotus Peverell watches his brothers choose their gifts from Death and finds they chose poorly.

Chapter 4- "Jackpot"- Dean accidentally wins the lottery but learns fame and fortune aren't all they're cracked up to be. After escaping his new chaotic life, Dean finds his luck might be even better than he thought. Hints of Deamus.

Chapter 5- "Marked"- Draco takes the Mark for his own reasons.

Chapter 6- "Tick, Tock"- Hermione races to catch Harry before he can turn himself over to Voldemort.

Chapter 7- "Loyal Friends and Steadfast Companions"- It was the first time a group of house elves came into The Three Broomsticks as customers. And Harry was determined that, though it was the first time, it would be far from the last.

Chapter 8- "Trading Celebrations"- On his first birthday without Fred, George trades his birthday party for a different kind of celebration- St. George's Day.

Chapter 9- "The Dichotomous Tree of Life"- Voldemort has won, and Luna knows exactly the moment that everything started to unravel. With her Sight, her family's grimoire, and her own fortitude, she just might be able to fix things the second time around.

Chapter 10- "Bring It On Home"- In the years following the war, the lives of The Ministry Six aren't perfect, but there's one place that reminds them that somehow, someday, everything will be all right.

Chapter 11- "All's Fair in Love and Basketball"- While on holiday in Florida, Dean drags Seamus to a Muggle basketball game.

Chapter 12- "Save It For A Rainy Day"- Sirius learns that when the path you expected your life to take is no longer an option, there's always another part to play. Inspired by "Save It For A Rainy Day" by the Jayhawks.

Chapter 13- "Nineteen"- Today is Blaise Zabini's nineteenth birthday, and it's been the worst one yet. Can a chance encounter change the tide of his twentieth year?

Chapter 14- "Forgotten Lessons"- Medora Lupin has questions, and she's demanding answers from the one person that can give them. She's about to get proof that there is never a truly a new story, just new characters on a different stage learning the same lessons that have simply been forgotten somewhere along the way.

Chapter 15- "Friends in the Right Places"- Theo needs a Christmas present for Luna, but his search will take him to a place that haunts his past.

Chapter 16- "The Last Name on the List"- If you listen to the rumors, Blaise's mother is a Black Widow, disposing of her husbands when they're no longer useful to her. But things are not always as they appear...

Chapter 17- "Baby Steps"- Luna firmly believes that progress toward a goal, no matter how small, should be always be celebrated. Now if she could just get Neville on board...

Chapter 18- "Constant Vigilance"- The stories behind Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody's most famous injuries - and his catchphrase.

Chapter 19- "The Perfect Life"- Neville gets all he never wanted and more. Luna helps him fix that.

Chapter 20- "Dawn"- Outside dawn is breaking, but George Weasley already has. But time has a way of taking broken things and making them... less so.

Chapter 21- "In Living Color"- The war took Colin's steady hands and, more importantly, Denis from him. But he won't let it take his determination to do what he loves.

Chapter 22- "Innuendo and Outuendo"- Or, four times Sirius Black couldn't keep his dirty mind to himself.


	2. Too Little, Too Late

_December 1, 1977_

After the dinner, the Marauders burst back into their familiar dorm room in a gale of laughter. As the other boys began to get ready for bed, Sirius noticed a note addressed to him left on his nightstand. He broke the black wax seal and found elegant, perfect script inside.

 _Brother,_

 _I do not anticipate that you should pity me nor offer me any help, but I cannot continue on this road without first trying to leave it. I will not tell you I have seen the error of my ways; I still uphold some of the very values you abhor. But I cannot in good conscience go willingly into the servitude of one who would kill every being whose only crimes are being of "lower" birth. I pray, don't tell me this is "too little, too late". You have friends in places that I cannot go, resources that I cannot utilize. Please, brother – if you have ever cared for me, help me find a way off this path. My life and soul depend on you._

 _R_

Sirius threw the piece of parchment onto his bed in disgust. "Cowardly little snake," he growled. "Can't stand to live with the consequences of his choices."

James snatched it up as he walked over to his own bunk. "Where'd this come from, Pads?" he asked, scanning the page.

"It was on the bedside table when I got back from classes. House elf must have left it for me," Sirius shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Reg has made his bed, and now he's got to lie in it."

James's head shot up. "You don't really mean that."

"Of course I do!" Sirius cried. "He's a spoiled little brat, and I'm done bailing him out."

"But he's your brother!" James exclaimed.

Sirius snorted. "Some brother he's been. I've been hauling his sorry ass out of trouble since we were kids, protecting him at every turn no matter the cost to myself. But there comes a point where I can't help him anymore. He threw his lot in with those other pureblood fanatics a long time ago, and he said himself that he hasn't changed. He's just scared that his gamble isn't going to pay off like he hoped. I tried every summer I was home to make him change his mind, to get him to come with me to your house, but he stayed in that dark-magic-infested hellhole. We had that blow up last summer when I refused to go back to Grimmauld Place, and I knew then that I'd lost him. So I guess this is just too little, too late."

James shook his head in disbelief. "But he's your _brother_."

"You keep saying that like it's supposed to mean something to me!" Sirius retorted.

" _Because it means something to me_!" James roared.

Remus and Peter shared a knowing glance and quietly slipped from the room.

Sirius looked at James incredulously. "What has this got to do with you?"

"How long have you called _me_ your brother?" he whispered, his hands clenched into trembling fists.

"But that's different," Sirius protested. "You're not-"

"I'm not actually your brother," James interjected. "And if this is how you treat your flesh and blood brother who is desperately begging for your help, I'd hate to see how your "brother in all but blood" would fare in the same situation. I'd be lucky to even get 'too little, too late' out of you." He straightened his spine and, gathering his things, stalked toward the bathroom.

"James," Sirius called. Hearing no response, he flopped back onto his pillow. He hated to admit that he might be wrong, but James had a point. He really did want to help Regulus, but it was already so late in the game – the world was on the brink of the war, sides had been chosen, and lines had been drawn in the sand. It would take a miracle to get Regulus out of this mess. Sirius sat up and pulled his bed hangings shut. He would just have to forgo sleep for a night; he needed a plan, and he needed it now.

When he returned from Christmas break, Sirius had every piece of his plan lined up – McGongall found a way to let Regulus live in separate quarters from the rest of Slytherin, Dumbledore had a place for him to stay outside of Hogwarts along with a stipend for necessities, and Minister Minchum was willing to protect him with Aurors if Regulus was willing to give up information on Voldemort's gang.

It was a week before Sirius managed to get his brother alone. Regulus was trudging back to the dungeons from the library when Sirius snagged his robes and pulled him into an alcove.

"I've got you a way out!" he whispered excitedly. "It's all lined up. McGonagall, Dumbledore, even Minister Minchum are in on this. You never have to go back to those people again!"

Regulus jerked out of his grasp. "Too late, _brother_ ," he spat. " _Those people_ , unlike you, have decided that I'm worthy of being their family. We've even got matching tattoos," he snarled, shoving back the sleeve on his left arm.

Sirius reached out to touch the ugly skull and snake marring his brother's arm, but Regulus pulled back as though burned.

"Reg," Sirius breathed. "What have they done to you? Never mind, I don't care. We can still get you out of this."

Regulus hissed, "It's too late! I begged you for help, and you left me to the wolves. Eventually, I learned that to survive the wolves, you have to become one. This is the price I paid for it."

"I am so sorry, Reg," Sirius murmured. "I should have… I… If we'd…"

"It doesn't matter anyway," Regulus sighed, looking decades older than his sixteen years. "I think I always knew this was coming. Even you couldn't save me from the plans mother had for me. Thanks for the offer, but I'm a full-fledged Death Eater now; there's no going back. It's time to face the music."

Sirius pulled his brother into a tight hug. "Promise me you'll stay safe. I don't care what you've done or will do – you're my brother, and I… I love you, Reg."

Regulus carefully extricated himself from the embrace. "You know I can't make that promise. But when this is all over, if we're both still alive, maybe we can start over again, as friends as well as brothers." Looking both ways down the corridor, he slipped out and headed back toward the dungeons as a whispered "Love you, too, Siri" echoed off the stone walls.

When he finally made it back to Gryffindor Tower, Sirius fell face first on his bed and did his best to stem the flood threatening in his eyes.

James sat down next to him and gently stroked his hair. "Too little, too late?" he asked. Sirius's sobs were the only answer he got.

* * *

Written for The Houses Competition

Slytherin, Year 6- Standard

Prompt: [Negative Pairing] Sirius Black/ James Potter

Word Count: 1160


	3. As An Old Friend

As he stepped foot on the other side of the river, Ignotus felt a chill pass over him. Death was angry; Death was not a being you wanted to enrage. The shrouded being rose from the river and, instead of taking its vengeance as Ignotus expected, offered the "clever wizards" each a "gift" or prize for besting it. Ignotus regarded its slick demeanor warily; he knew Death would always reap its reward, often in unexpected ways.

Ignotus stood frozen in horror as Antioch, his eldest brother, asked Death for an unbeatable wand. "You fool," he thought to himself as Antioch caressed the Elder Wand. Yes, the wand was beautiful, and anyone could feel the power that it radiated. In the hands of a wizard as powerful and ambitious as Antioch, it would be a weapon feared by all who looked up on it. But that's all it would ever be – a weapon. Ignotus could only dream of the things a wand that powerful could create: permanent enchantments to rival goblin work, supercharged healing potions for thus-far incurable illnesses, wizardry to test the very laws of magic. But he knew that was a pipe dream. In the hands of Antioch and others like him, the Elder Wand was doomed to a life of war and death.

If Antioch, the cleverest and most calculating of the brothers, could request such a terrible gift, Ignotus was afraid to see what the passionate, emotional Cadmus would come up with.

Ignotus's heart sank when Cadmus asked for a way to bring back those who had passed on. He understood his brother's heartbreak; to lose your soulmate would never be considered easy. But it was something that every witch and wizard learned from a young age – those who had gone beyond were meant to stay beyond. Terrible fates befell those who meddled with the line between life and death. But all the same, Death pulled a smooth, round black stone from the river and passed it to Cadmus. Ignotus wondered just how well the stone would work. Would the souls be able to interact with the world, or would they be doomed to only watch life from the sidelines? In theory, the stone would be an incredible tool to communicate with those beyond. In the possession of a calmer, more logical man, the stone could be used to bring closure to those whose loved ones died tragically soon. But as long as the stone was with Cadmus, it would never be anything more than an anchor to a woman already dead.

Ignotus thought hard about his own gift. He had always been the pragmatic yet laid-back brother. He had no ambition to be unconquerable, and he had no great love to wrest from Death's grip. He simply wanted to live a very long, very happy life.

When he asked for a way to hide from Death, Ignotus swore he saw the being's shoulders sag. From an unseen hiding place, Death pulled its own cloak of invisibility and thrust it at the youngest brother. Antioch took one look at the shimmery cloth and scoffed. What was the point in hiding when you could be invincible? Cadmus considered the cloak in confusion. Why choose something with no power to actively bring you joy? Ignotus just shrugged off their disdain; he was pleased with his own gift, feeling in his heart that it was the best and most powerful of the three. Only time would tell.

* * *

Time proved Ignotus right. The Elder Wand became a thing of legend, and Antioch was killed for it shortly after its creation. Cadmus brought his true love's soul back from the beyond, but she couldn't truly _live_. He eventually threw himself into that same fateful river just to be with her again. And Ignotus? He grieved his brothers' foolishness and deaths. But he himself hid from Death, lived a long, happy life, and, when the time came, greeted Death as an old friend.

* * *

Written for The Houses Competition

Slytherin, Year 6- Additional

Prompt: 607-670 words, must be about a character from the Tales of Beedle the Bard

Word Count: 660


	4. Jackpot

**Written for QLFC, Season 6, Round 10**

Team: Wigtown Wanderers Position: Seeker

Prompt: Write about a character winning the lottery and changing their identity because of it.

 **Written for The Houses Competition**

Slytherin, Year 4

Prompt: [Action] Changing your appearance

Beta(s): Dina, Aya, Lynne, Daronwyk Words: 2872 per GDocs

* * *

Dean Thomas was frozen on the edge of his hand-me-down floral couch, clutching the little paper ticket in his clammy palm. His eyes stayed glued to the television where the pretty blonde evening news anchor was pointing a string of numbers.

4-8-15-16-23... 42

Dean's heart leapt, and his stomach dropped to his shoes. His eyes flicked down to his ticket with the same numbers printed on it. Playing the lottery was just supposed to be a silly game that you could always count on losing. Until… you didn't.

He rose and stumbled back to his dresser on shaky legs. He shoved the ticket in the back corner of his sock drawer; the cramped studio apartment didn't offer many hiding places for lotto tickets worth up to eleven million pounds. He cast as many wards around it as he could without disturbing the Muggle electric circuits. Dazedly sliding into bed, Dean couldn't help but wonder just how much his life was about to change.

* * *

The next morning, Dean called in sick to work, cast several glamour charms on himself, and promptly took his ticket to the proper authorities to claim the prize. By the time he walked out as the sole winner of eleven million pounds, reporters and television crews were swarming the building; Dean had to change his glamour again to get through the crowds. He rounded a corner and, seeing no one, popped home. He really wasn't sure what all the fuss was about.

With the necessary business taken care of, Dean called his parents, all his younger sisters, all of his friends from Hogwarts that he wanted to tell. Everyone was excited for him, but Seamus gave him a warning about just how much this was going to change his life. Wasn't that the whole point?

Dean's parents insisted on having a few guests over to celebrate — who was he to deny them? A little party never killed anybody. And as it was barely a year after the final battle, Dean was willing to take any reason to celebrate everyone being alive and doing so well. With that settled, he went about his usual evening routine.

The next morning, Dean woke with a smile. Still filled with the excitement of his good fortune, he poured himself a bowl of cereal and turned on the television. He flipped past a soap opera, a game show, a home buying network, and stopped on the local news. There were tons of vans and reporters flocked to some dingy block of apartments in a seemingly run-down area. He dropped his spoon with a loud _clink_ as he realized it was _his_ neighborhood. They were parked outside _his_ flat.

Dean sat down as the man in front of the camera began talking about Britain's newest lottery winner. They talked about his time in primary school and even interviewed his old playmates. Then, they brought up his mysterious disappearance and questioned his cover story of being away at a private school. To make matters worse, no one had seen him come back to his flat after turning in the winning ticket. "Where could he be?" — they were asking — "Hiding? Missing? Kidnapped?"

With a groan, he flipped off the television and tossed the remote across the room. Since the war and spending a year on the run, Dean had come to truly value his privacy; not even Seamus had a key to the door, and his mother and stepfather rarely visited. And rather than exit through the door, walk through the hall and down the stairs to leave, Dean just Apparated out of his flat to wherever he needed to go. As a result, he knew nothing of his neighbors. He was sure he gave the impression of being a recluse, which simply made him an even more interesting news story. Heaving a sigh, Dean turned off the television and tried to go about his day normally.

Before he knew it, it was time to Apparate to his parents' house for the party. He was excited to see everyone and share his bewilderment in this stroke of good luck. His family was ecstatic, his friends were thrilled, his… Seamus was just happy that Dean was happy. It started out as a lovely little get together. But 'a few people' quickly turned into the whole neighborhood, and then nearly the entire village was cramming into Dean's childhood home. He handled it all very well, he thought, until some prick called the news station and reporters were storming the street. Feeling more than a bit overwhelmed, Dean slipped into his old bedroom and Apparated back to his flat shortly before dinner. Exhausted, he flopped onto his bed and slept.

* * *

Things only got worse from there. Dean, being a wizard, rarely left his flat via the front door; he just Apparated or Flooed everywhere. He also valued his privacy, especially after the war. He lived in a Muggle building because he knew no one in the area, and his neighbors didn't know him or particularly care to. They never asked questions, and that's how he liked it. So when reporters went door to door asking about Dean, the other tenants had nothing to share other than he seemed to live alone, rarely left the apartment, and seemed like a nice enough young man. The lack of sightings, interviews, and reliable information about him whipped the media into a frenzy.

Not only was Dean having trouble with the Muggle news, but the _Daily Prophet_ had also picked up his story. The attention was so overwhelming that he'd refused to go back to work. He was receiving dozens of owls from old schoolmates reminding him of "that one time," people from work hinting at favors, random strangers claiming to be hard up. Muggles wanted his privacy and wizards wanted his money. All Dean wanted to was to live his life normally, just with a little extra cash. But all of that had gone up in flames when he bought that little pink ticket.

What was Dean to do now? He had made the singular mistake of becoming a reclusive millionaire, the one that didn't give interviews, the moment he walked out of the lottery office. And he didn't intend to ever give one, if he got his way. Settling at his kitchen table with a notebook and pen — so much better than parchment and a quill — and began plotting.

* * *

Over the next few days, Dean popped in and out of his flat, using his parents' backyard as an Apparition point. He made the rounds at the various government offices, collected the necessary forms, and spoke to all the right people to make his plan a reality.

Early Friday morning, a yawning Dean Thomas exited his flat for the last time. He quietly popped into his parents' backyard and knocked on the back door. Though surprised to find their only son standing on their doorstep, his parents invited him in for a quick breakfast over which he explained his plans.

"So you're no longer going to be Dean Thomas, then?" his mother asked sadly.

Dean reached across the kitchen table to hold her hand. "I know, Mum. I love that I'm named after Grandpa Martin, but I'm afraid that if I keep any part of my name I'll get recognized."

"But won't people from school recognize you in that Alley place?" his stepfather interjected.

"First, I'm planning on using Muggle ways of changing my appearance. Hair dye, a different hair style, colored contacts or maybe glasses — you know, all the stuff from those spy movies you love," Dean smiled. But at his next thought, his face dimmed. "And no one will recognize me in Diagon Alley because I'm never going back there. I'm leaving Britain."

Dean's mother looked ready to cry, but his stepfather was unsurprised.

"Any chance you'll tell us where you're headed?" he grimaced.

The young wizard shook his head. "I'm not telling anyone. I can't trust anyone from the _Prophet_ or the Ministry to illegally pick it out of your heads. I'm hoping to come back in a few years, once everything has died down a bit, but until then we'll just have to keep in touch with email. And I want you to know that I am _so_ sorry," Dean lamented. "When I bought the ticket, I never expected to win the bloody lottery. And I certainly didn't mean for it to come to all this."

His mother nodded, wiping away her tears, and his stepfather clasped his shoulder, saying, "You do what you need to son. We'll always be here to support you, whether that's standing by your side or letting you go. We love you, Dean-o."

Dean blinked away tears and pulled them into a tight hug. Merlin, this was going to be harder than he thought. It had nearly killed him to be on the run for an entire year, and here he was doing it again voluntarily. Dean sighed. Sometimes life gives you no good choices.

* * *

Will Bonds, formerly known as Dean Thomas, stepped off his flight from Birmingham to Christchurch, New Zealand only slightly jet-lagged; it was amazing what you could do with the right potions. He collected his luggage and made a quick trip to the airport restroom. As he washed his hands, he looked in the mirror and had to do a double take. His close cropped hair had grown several inches for his transformation, and it was now sticking up wildly from his nap on the plane. His formerly dark chocolate eyes were now more of a murky hazel and hiding behind a pair of non-prescription glasses. Most notable, though, was his now much deeper skin tone; that had been a difficult spell to get right because it actually altered his genetic material. With a sigh, Dean gathered his magically enhanced luggage and made his way outside to hail a cab.

Dean— _Will_ —climbed out of the cab, noting the beautiful sunset behind his new apartment block. He had chosen a flat not unlike his old one in London, only this time it was in a much nicer neighborhood. Once inside, Dean pulled his wand from his trunk and got his bedframe and mattress unshrunk and positioned the way he wanted. Despite being hungry, excited, and a little scared, Dean was able to fall into bed and go to sleep, thanking Merlin for Dreamless Sleep potions.

* * *

Over the next few months, Dean settled into a nice routine in Christchurch. With his knowledge of Muggle athletics, especially football, he easily got a job at a sporting goods store. He didn't need the money, but he wanted to keep up appearances, plus it gave him something to do. In his free time, Dean began to explore all the South Island had to offer — hiking Milford Sound, whale watching, Marlborough wine tasting, touring a glacier. All in all, it was a pleasant introduction to Kiwi life.

But Dean really found his new home in New Zealand when football season kicked off. In Wellington, just across the Cook Strait, he found a giant West Ham United supporters club. Dean found instant friends amongst the other Hammer fans, and he enjoyed spending his weekends in various pubs watching his favorite team with other "properly minded" individuals.

As much as he loved his new country, his new friends, and his new life, Dean couldn't help but feel a bit homesick. He kept up with his parents and sisters through email, but it wasn't the same as seeing them face to face, being able to hug them and laugh with them. And then there was Seamus.

Dean had felt some form of attraction toward Seamus since third year, and by the time he left Hogwarts for the last time, Dean knew that it was more than just curiosity or a crush. When he made the decision to leave Britain, Dean had seriously considered asking Seamus to come with him, but he hadn't wanted the Irishman to feel obligated to uproot his entire life. They weren't together, he had reasoned, and he had no reason to believe they ever would be. Instead, he'd taken the easy way — the coward's way, Dean thought to himself — and left Seamus a letter explaining everything he'd done.

* * *

So it was that on a warm spring day in October, Dean found himself sitting in another pub with the Wellington West Ham club watching DiCanio score the first goal when he felt a prickle of magic in the air. In Wellington, it wasn't uncommon for magical people to be out and about in the Muggle world, so he thought nothing of it. During the halftime break, Dean left the group to grab another drink at the bar. As he approached, the wizened bartender silently poured and then handed him a pint of Guinness, even though he'd been drinking Foster's.

Before Dean could correct the old man, he thrust a gnarled thumb toward a patron shrouded in a haze of smoke at the end of the bar. "Came from him," he grunted. "Said you'd know what it meant."

Dean went back to his new friends and begged off, feigning a stomach ache; they didn't argue with Will, too engrossed in the game to worry much. He then took the bar stool next to the shadowy figure. "I'll be honest, you're the last person I expected to see here."

"And who the hell were you expecting?" Seamus asked. "Certainly not anyone else that cares about you. You left us all high and dry in England with nary a way to find you."

Dean cocked his head. "How _did_ you find me?"

Seamus snorted, "Face it, mate, I know you better than anyone. You don't speak any other languages, so the place had to speak mainly English. You detest North American soccer, Apartheid only recently ended in South Africa, and you think that Australian wildlife is designed to kill people. That really only left New Zealand. And I knew that where there is West Ham, Dean Thomas would follow. Just had to call up the president and find out where you were watching the game. I did ask about a British bloke moving in, just to check. Really, mate? Billy Bonds?"

"I go by Will, you prat," Dean growled, paying their tabs. They made their way out into the southern sunshine, and he tilted his face up to greet it. "How did you recognize me too? I put in a lot of work to make sure that I wouldn't be identified."

"I keep telling you, I just know you. You can change your hair, your skin, your eyes, your clothes, whatever. I'd still know you by the way you bounce when you rock back in a chair, or the way you always scratch your nose before you disagree with someone, or the way you always miss that little patch of beard on your left cheek," Seamus murmured, suddenly intent on studying his shoes. "You can change everything about you, but I still know you. And I know that you're missing home, whether you'll admit it or not," he finished defiantly.

Despite his bravado, Dean had rarely seen his best friend look so nervous, as though he was afraid of being sent away. As if that would happen. "As much as I hate to say it, you're right — I'm pretty homesick for my family and friends. But I can't go back now, Shay. I've changed my name, my face, my very identity to finally get some peace."

Seamus sagged in relief. "I'm not here to bring you home. I'm here to stay with you."

Dean's stomach somersaulted. "You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have you, you great prick. I miss you too, you know," Seamus snapped. "So don't even think of sending me away."

Looking down into the other boy's eyes, Dean saw indignation, slight fear, and… something that made Dean's stomach continue its internal acrobatics. "Wh-Where are you planning on staying?" he stammered.

"With you, I figured."

"I live in a studio, and there's not enough room for another bed."

"Same bed you had in London?"

"Yeah…"

"Then we know it's big enough for the two of us for a bit. Wouldn't be the first time Ogden's got the best of us and landed us there for a night and half the next day. We'll figure out the rest as we go."

Dean thought on this for a moment. Seamus was right — they'd both be able to sleep in the California King just fine, but he could have just suggested transfiguring it into a couple of bunks. Unless… Maybe staying together in such close quarters would be a good opportunity to get a better feel for how Seamus felt about him, especially with all these changes. "You're right, mate. Here, let me pop you in through the wards."

Dean grabbed Seamus's hand in preparation for their travel, and he had every intention of holding onto it just a little too long when they got back to his flat. He may have won eleven million pounds in Britain, but he might just hit the jackpot in New Zealand.


	5. Marked

**Written for The Houses Competition**

Slytherin, Year 4

Prompt: [Event] Joining the Death Eaters / Getting the Dark Mark

Word Count: 784, per GDocs

* * *

Draco stalked down the corridors of Malfoy Manor like the condemned man he was, flanked on either side by his Aunt Bella and his godfather, Snape. He held his head high, shuttering the fear and shame behind a cold, proud mask. Bella was grinning madly, ecstatic to welcome her only nephew to the Dark Lord's side; Snape's face was frozen in his usual sneer, devoid of any emotion save contempt.

Entering the ornate drawing room turned throne room, Draco scanned the crowd gathered for his confirmation. All the members of the Dark Lord's inner circle were present, ready to see him initiated into their ranks. A few staunch followers outside of the inner circle, like Fenrir Greyback, stood in the back. Many wore looks of envy and anger, jealous of the "upstart brat" who was about to accept the coveted Mark that, for them, was a symbol of the highest status. Draco supposed they were allowed to watch the proceedings to remind him how many others would willingly line up for the "honor" of being Marked by Lord Voldemort. He had to hold back a snort at that thought; if there was a way out of this, he'd gladly have traded places with any one of the fools.

Standing tall and proud at the right hand of the Dark Lord was Lucius. Draco fought back a growl- it was the bastard's fault that he was in this situation to begin with. If his idiot father hadn't been so blinded by the promise of more money and power, none of the Malfoys would be in this mess. Instead, Lucius had rallied around the first powerful wizard to espouse the ideals of blood purity and "magic is might", forcing his family to walk that same path to their demise. If he lived through this, Draco would never forgive his father for ruining his life as well as his mother's.

To the rest of the room, Narcissa was standing inertly by her husband's side, not a trace of feeling on her face. But Draco could tell by her guarded posture and swollen eyes that his mother was and had always been vehemently opposed to his joining the Death Eaters. He was also sure that, beneath her long sleeves, her body bore the marks of her arguments with Lucius on the matter. When she'd realized she had no hope of dissuading her husband, Narcissa sat down with Draco and tried in vain find a way out of his conscription. Though they had been unsuccessful, he was grateful for his mother's expression of support and love.

There was one positive aspect of Draco's impending enslavement: he would finally know _everything_. The Dark Lord had already announced his intention to groom the Malfoy heir as his new right hand man, and such a position came with certain rights and privileges. Once he had proved himself to Lord Voldemort—Draco shuddered to think that would entail— he would have far more input on what the Death Eaters as a whole did. He would likely be able to plan his own raids and supervise those the Dark Lord instigated. He would have Lord Voldemort's ear about how to "send messages" to their opponents. Above all, he would be able to secretly get word out when Death Eater activity would put the one he loved in danger.

Draco closed his eyes and focused on conjuring _her_ face in his mind. If he tried hard, he could remember the sweet smell of her hair, the warmth of her soft body against his, the feel of her gentle lips pressed against his own. The thought of her was the only thing that could give him the strength to do this; he would move mountains, tame the oceans, conquer continents for her. Hell, he'd destroy the entire world without a second thought if it would keep her safe.

With her loving smile burned into his brain, Draco stepped forward to be branded like cattle. Anything to keep her from harm, anything to keep her from harm, he chanted silently. As Lord Voldemort's wand pressed into his forearm, Draco felt every nerve ending in his body catch on fire, urging him to submit, body and soul, to his new master. With every ounce of strength he had, he fought the compulsion— the Dark Lord might now command his body, but she would forever own his soul.

After what could have been a second or a year, Lord Voldemort finally finished placing the Dark Mark, and Draco's head began to swim. As he collapsed in the aftermath of overwhelming pain, the last thing he saw were her bright eyes, her name a whispered prayer dying on his lips.


	6. Tick, Tock

Written for The Houses Competition

Hufflepuff, Year 1- Drabble

WC: 745

Prompt: [Theme] A race; Additional: A sad occasion/moment/emotion

AN: Slightly OOC Hermione and Neville. This is my own version of events, so it's not technically canon compliant but I don't think it's far off enough to be an AU. This is your official heads up :)

* * *

Hermione knelt on the floor of the Great Hall, trying not to intrude on the Weasley's grief as they mourned the loss of Fred. She quietly opened her ever-present beaded bag, thanking Merlin she'd brought it with them from Shell Cottage, and slipped Ron some tissues.

Edging a bit farther from the mourning family, Hermione saw Neville slip through the door with yet another body - and there had been _so_ many bodies - thrown over his shoulder. When he'd placed the girl gently on the table, Hermione waved him over. She hadn't seen Harry since he disappeared to watch Snape's memories, and she hoped that Neville had spoken to him or at least seen him somewhere.

"Hey, Hermione," Neville murmured, wiping the sweat from his brow. "How are the Weasleys holding up?"

Hermione looked over her shoulder at her adoptive family, and Neville's gaze followed hers to where the family members sat in various stages of grief.

"Right…" he muttered, tugging at his collar. "I was, um… doing some recovery work… and I ran into Harry-"

"Harry?" Hermione whispered forcefully. "When did you see him? Did you talk to him?" She impatiently started digging through her bag for the Marauders' Map as she waited for Neville's answer.

"I spoke to him not five minutes ago," Neville said slowly. "I was just outside the Entrance Hall, and he said something about a snake-"

Hermione cut him off. "Did he say what he was doing? Was he headed for the Forest? Please tell me he's not leaving us."

Neville sighed. "He was wearing an invisibility cloak. Nearly gave me heart failure when he started talking out of thin air. He said he was going to be out of sight for a while, but he swore he wasn't going to hand himself over. Anyway, he said you'd be able to explain about the snake-"

Hermione, frantically searching the map for Harry's dot, jabbed her finger into the parchment. "No!" she cried as she saw the dot move slowly toward the Forbidden Forest. Without thinking, she took off at a sprint.

Hermione thought she vaguely heard Neville calling after her, but every sound seemed to be filtering through a thick layer of glass. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion except for her heart, which beat a frantic tattoo in her chest as she flew down the crumbling hallway.

Very quickly, Hermione cursed her decision to stay indoors - it was the fastest route to the Forest, but until she got outside she wouldn't be able to scream at Harry. And all she wanted to do right now was scream at the top of her lungs, demanding that he come back to her, promising that they would win this fight together.

Her shoes were filled with cement as she raced through the corridors, trying to catch Harry's dot as it grew ever closer to the Forbidden Forest and the boundary of the map. Hermione stumbled over something - no, _someone_ , she thought obliquely - as she fell sprawled across the floor and the map went flying. She snatched it up, ignoring the smudges of blood her scraped palm left on the edge of the parchment as she hurtled forward. Her lips cracked, her lungs burned, her muscles ached; still she raced on.

At last, Hermione slammed into a splintered door, the last thing separating her from Harry. She flung it open just in time to see the dot labeled "Harry Potter" reach the treeline.

" _Harry_!" she screeched. To her dismay, her voice came out as a hoarse cry. She sprinted forward, still trying to scream his name as she rushed toward his invisible presence.

She stumbled again, only to be caught by a pair of strong arms. " _Harry_!" she wailed one last time. Hermione swore that she saw just a ripple along the treeline, like the swishing of an invisibility cloak as the wearer turned to look back at the castle. One swish, and nothing more.

Hermione collapsed sobbing into a warm chest. "We can't stop him, Hermione," Neville whispered. "He going to do what he thinks he has to. But it doesn't matter either way. We're going to win this thing, for him and everyone else," he promised.

But Hermione no longer cared about winning the battle or even the damn war. She had already lost the most important fight - a race against time itself. But it was impossible to win a race when you didn't know it had even begun.


	7. Loyal Friends and Steadfast Companions

Loyal Friends and Steadfast Companions

* * *

It was the first time a group of house elves came into The Three Broomsticks as customers. And Harry was determined that, though it was the first time, it would be far from the last.

The hard-working elves had been toiling for days in the aftermath of the battle, helping to clean up the castle and grounds as well as host the subsequent memorial services. They were quite glad to stay busy; as long as there was work to be done, there was no time to be sad.

But that afternoon, after the last of the sniffling visitors left through Hogwarts' front gate, Harry Potter marched down to the kitchens.

"Hey, um, everybody," he said as dozens of devoted elves scurried to greet him.

"Mister Harry Potter Sir!" squeaked a young elf. "What can we's be doing for you, sir?"

Another elf piped up. "Would the great Harry Potter like some pudding? Some snacksies?"

"Uh, that's really alright," he grimaced, tugging at his uncomfortable collar. "I actually came down here to thank you guys for all your help over the past few weeks."

"We does not need thanks, Mister Harry Potter Sir. We elves is just doing our jobs, we is," a heavily wrinkled elf reassured him.

Harry shook his head. "No, you've done far more than just your jobs. Your loyalty to the school, the faculty, and the students has been astounding. Cleaning up the mess from the, uh, the fight, would have been a hundred times more difficult without your help, and you all put so much effort into those funerals so that we would have time to grieve for our friends. I just feel bad that you haven't had the chance to, um, do the same."

An awed hush fell over the normally excitable elves. Winky, who had somehow wormed her way to the front of the small crowd, reached up and grasped his hand.

"Dobby always said you was the bestest of all the wizards, Harry Potter Sir. You just keeps proving it to us again and again," she whispered, a tear rolling from her tennis ball-like eye.

Harry smiled. "I'm really not that great. But I would like to do something to show my appreciation for you lot."

"We doesn't need anything, Mister Harry Potter Sir, really," Winky promised.

"But I… well… What if this wasn't for you, specifically?" Harry asked. He was met with blank stares and tilted heads.

He cleared his throat and tried again. "What I mean is, uh, maybe we could all do something in honor of all the house elves and friends who, uh, died?"

Harry hadn't thought it was possible for their eyes to grow wider, but they proved him wrong.

"Mister Harry Potter Sir is too kind," sniffled a watery voice.

"But where would we's go?" squeaked an elf in the back.

Winky looked up pleadingly at Harry. "If it's not too much to ask, Harry Potter Sir, Winky thinks that it might be nice to visit somewhere D-Dobby always wanted to go with his Harry Potter."

"Sounds like a grand idea," Harry promised. "Where are we headed, Winky?"

"The Three Broomsticks," she grinned.

* * *

Harry felt a bit like the Pied Piper as he led a small troupe of elves down the short road to Hogsmeade. He wasn't really thinking about the implications of taking house elves to the Three Broomsticks; he was simply headed to have a butterbeer with his friends. He threw open the door and ushered them inside.

Madam Rosmerta's greeting died on her lips as she saw the veritable tribe of elves headed for the largest table in her pub. She threw up her hands, muttering something about banning Harry Potter and his antics from all of Hogsmeade.

Said wizard approached the bar and ordered thirty-two half pints of butterbeer, gesturing toward the host of pointed faces watching him with adoration.

With a wave of her wand, Rosmerta got started on the order. "And for you?" she asked, levitating the half-sized glasses over to the table.

"Oh, I included myself in the order," Harry said simply, sliding several coins across the bar before striding back to his seat at the head of the gathering.

As the group chatted, all the elves trying to catch the attention of the Great Harry Potter, an atmosphere of discontent grew around the bar.

"Well, I never," muttered a wrinkled witch to her companion.

"I agree, Agnes. I've never seen elves, act with such… selfishness. Really, they ought to be back at the castle serving those poor teachers," the other old woman agreed.

At her criticism, Harry's back stiffened. Winky reached out and placed a calming hand on his tense wrist.

"Who do they think they are, walking in here and eating in a pub like they're humans or something? They belong back in the kitchens, actually working," Agnes sniffed.

Harry stood and angrily turned on the aged witch. "Madam, I'll have you know that these elves are exactly where they belong. They've worked harder than any witch or wizard at Hogwarts, and that's before, during, and after the war. Without their help, we never would have defeated Voldemort."

The rest of the half-filled pub gasped, and Harry turned his impassioned speech on them. "It's nothing but the 're just as brave and smart and resourceful as any of the rest of us, and they deserve to be treated that way. And honestly, wizards take them completely for granted. These elves spent weeks helping us mourn our losses, so I asked them all to come with me to honor those of the elves that died over the course of the war. Or," he finished, smiling at his friends, "anyone else for that matter. This is about who you all choose to honor."

When none of the elves moved to say anything in response, Harry forged ahead. He lifted his tiny glass into the air. "Here's to Dobby. He died a free elf, but he was the bravest, most loyal friend I've ever had."

Harry could read the struggle on Winky's face as she decided to stand and hoist her glass above her head. "To Kreacher. Kreacher wasn't always a good elf, but he died with honor and beings loyal to his master, without havings been told to," she said timidly. Harry nodded his encouragement.

"To Flip's daughter, Rooky," came a soft yet strong voice from down the table. "Rooky was a smart elf, she was, and a very good elf. Rooky saved her master's children from the bad mens in the masks and tried to save her masters too," he finished with a sob.

Rosmerta cleared her throat. "To Waffle, my dear old friend and the best damn cook in Hogsmeade. Bloody Death Eaters took him away from me far too soon," she said thickly.

"To my old pal, Cinch," said a gruff looking wizard with a tear on his cheek. "Best listener I've ever seen, and the best secret keeper to boot. Miss that old fella."

Toasts started pouring forth, and nearly everyone in the bar honored an elf from their lives, even Agnes and her friend. After half an hour, all honors seemed to have been paid, so Harry stood and raised his glass to the elves again.

"Here's to house elves, our loyal friends and steadfast companions. May we all aspire to your kindness, devotion, work ethic, and friendship. Wizarding kind owes you a debt of gratitude that we can never hope to repay."

Cheers echoed through the pub, and Harry and the elves celebrated long into the night.

* * *

Written for The Houses Competition

Hufflepuff, Year 1- Standard

Prompt: [First Line] It was the first time a group of house elves came into The Three Broomsticks as customers.

Additional: House trait- Hufflepuff- Loyalty

WC: 1264


	8. Trading Celebrations

_AN:_ reminder that George's birthday is April 1st. I'm also not British, so please know that, despite my best efforts, this may be a crap description of normal St. George's Day events. My apologies.

 _March 23, 1999_

"I told you, I don't want a birthday party!" George bellowed, slamming the back door of the Burrow shut behind him.

Molly sagged into a kitchen chair. "I knew next week was going to be hard for him. It'll be hard for all of us, but especially George…" she finished, dissolving into tears.

"There, there, Molly-wobbles," Arthur soothed as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "We've got to let him go and respect his wishes. But if I know George, he'll find some other way of celebrating."

Molly sniffed. "That's what I'm worried about."

"George, please come with us," Ron pleaded through the fire. "Harry and Hermione are dragging us all to some muggle celebration thing and they swear we're going to have fun. I know you've not left that flat in over three weeks."

"Leave me alone, Ron," George half-yelled from his spot on the couch.

The younger man huffed. "Fine, you leave me no choice."

Five seconds later, Ginny came striding through the fireplace.

"Bloody hell, Gin, give me some warning, would you?" George cried, jerking an afghan over his boxer-clad body.

"Oh please, like I care," she said dismissively, eyeing the empty bottles of firewhiskey and other detritus that littered the room. "Now get up and get dressed."

George rolled his eyes. "I'm not going, Gin. I already told Ron-"

"If you'll just come with us today, I swear I'll leave you alone until you feel like coming out again," Ginny promised.

George heaved a sigh, knowing he'd be in for more nagging if he didn't comply, and trudged into his room to get ready.

It took multiple trips, but eventually Harry and Hermione got everyone Apparated to the edge of a muggle park and then crossed the street to a large square filled with tents, musicians, and tons of people.

"What is this?" Neville asked, craning his neck to take in everything before him.

Harry grinned. "Welcome to St. George's Day!"

"St. George's Day?" Ron snorted. "What kind of holiday is that?"

"Sounds like a bloody good one," George muttered, giving his brother a small smirk. Everyone tensed up, recognizing that George was making jokes again but not wanting to be the one to point it out.

Harry cleared his throat. "Uh, anyway, it's kind of like Britain's version of a patriotic holiday."

"Obviously, it was established to celebrate St. George, who is the patron saint of Britain," Hermione continued, easily slipping back into her teacher-like role. "Medieval legend states that St. George tamed and slayed a dragon that was demanding offerings of human flesh. By doing so, he rescued the princess who had been chosen as the next sacrifice. Muggles reject the idea as myth and claim he was simply a religious martyr, but there's some question as to whether or not St. George was really a wizard who killed a dragon that was threatening his town."

"How very romantic," Luna said dreamily. "I do wish that he'd just gotten rid of the blandhunkles that were likely stuck in the dragon's nose instead of killing him. But that krimplash has flown, I suppose."

"Uh, right," Ron said warily. "As much as I'd love to keep hearing about some old bloke who might have killed a dragon, what do you say we get started on trying all of that food I smell?"

"You only ever think with your stomach," Hermione laughed, swatting him lightly on the arm as she led her motley crew toward the various food vendors.

Harry and Hermione split up, making sure to get a little bit of everything the fair had to offer. Ron, predictably, felt love at first sight for an oversize turkey leg, and Luna and Ginny happily split a funnel cake. As Harry nearly broke a tooth on his caramel apple and Hermione scolded him for being too careless, George finished off a small pile of corndogs.

"What now?" the oldest redhead asked, excited to see what else the day might have to offer.

Hermione tapped her chin. "We could see if there are any good bands playing this early in the day."

The group agreed, and they began wandering through the various stalls toward what looked to be the main stage of the festival. By the time they arrived, Luna and George had somehow gotten their faces painted with the white and red British flag. A group of young people on the stage, dressed in medieval costumes, were in the process of warming up. When the band finally started playing, the friends started dancing almost against their will- the music was catchy! Soon they were dancing like fools and making up words to the songs they didn't know, which was all of them.

The band announced a break and directed everyone to the central green for a jousting contest. The witches and wizards shared a look and a shrug before following the crowd.

The object of the contest was to hold a jousting stick, run down the path, and knock a stuffed dragon off the pedestal. It all sounded easy enough until the emcee announced that participants would be blindfolded and spun around until they were dizzy before letting them joust.

The kids all decided to join the contest, along with over fifty other people. Each contestant was given a shot to knock off the stuffed dragon. Those who failed were eliminated, and then the process started all over again. Hermione and Neville were eliminated quickly but gladly cheered their friends on. After a bit, Ron, then Luna, and then Ginny were knocked out; Harry made it to the final ten, but wound up running into the pedestal with his body instead of his jousting stick.

George made it to the final two and was up against a stout bloke with a smug look on his face. The announcer called for a pair of "ladies" whose "honor" the jousters would be defending. Hermione rolled her eyes, but Luna just flounced forward and smacked a kiss onto George's cheek.

The ladies applied the blindfolds, and George had to hold in a gasp when his blindfold became transparent.

"Luna, you sly girl," George muttered with a grin.

"Shhh," Luna whispered, pretending to adjust his eye covering. "I like to win. And I don't think this is going to make a big difference. That other man's head is in a cloud of nargles," she murmured.

George made quick work of his jousting opponent, and he ripped his blindfold off to the cheers of the crowd. He was lifted onto a sedan chair and hoisted above the spectators. Ever the entertainer, George waved and blew kisses to the crowd, which only cheered louder.

By the time George made it off the sedan chair, the festival was nearly over. The tired witches and wizards slipped away and Apparated back to the Burrow.

"How was it?" Arthur asked excitedly, opening the door as they trooped in.

"Incredible!"

"So much fun!"

"We are _so_ going back next year!"

Molly looked at the oldest of the bunch. "George? What did you think?"

"I think that, from now on, I'm not celebrating my birthday. I'm celebrating St. George's Day!" he cried.

Molly and Arthur seemed surprised by their son's enthusiasm, so the friends laughed and settled down to tell them all about George's wonderful day.

Written for the Houses Competition

Hufflepuff, Year 1- Additional

Prompt: [St. George's Day]; a happy occasion

WC: 1222


	9. The Dichotomous Tree of Life

**Written for QLFC, Season 6, Finals Round 1**

Team: Wigtown Wanderers

Position: Seeker

Prompt: Dynamic Timeline (every action in the past affects the future)

Words: 1460

Beta(s): Dina

AN: SeerLuna!AU

* * *

The Dichotomous Tree of Life

She didn't want to do it; she'd already screwed up enough already. But if she left things the way they were now, with Voldemort victorious and so many dead, there was no way for the Wizarding world to recover.

She didn't blame Neville and Ginny for not trusting her or Harry for telling them not to. It was her own fault for _not_ trusting what her Sight told her. She'd known that would be the consequence of her actions, and she'd regretted it ever since. By the time Hogwarts had fallen, her spirit was already shattered because there had been no rebellion, no one left to give them any hope. When the final battle came, it had been lost before it ever started.

As best as she could trace it back, Harry's distrust of her was the linchpin of it all.

She had to go back. She had to believe in the branches. She had to make sure Harry trusted her. She had to save the world, rules be damned.

She pulled the last book she'd managed to hold onto - her family's ancient grimoire - out of her ragged bag. There was a spell, covered in warnings and tales of failure, that would theoretically take her back to a time that would make a difference. She began drawing the unfamiliar runes and trying not to stumble over the incantation, praying that this would be enough.

* * *

When she realized she was back in the past, Luna was all but running from the DA meeting. The throbbing in her head told her why. Merlin, why did this have to happen every time? She stumbled up the stairs to her dormitory, her fingers rubbing at her temples, her eyes, her neck. Sliding into bed, she thoughtlessly charmed her drapes shut and burrowed beneath her covers. Harry Potter was a wonderful friend, but he was hell on her Sight.

As a gift inherited from her grandmother Cassandra, Luna had the ability to see the future. Every Seer's gift was a little different. Some could catch glimpses of events to come without any context surrounding them; some, like Professor Trelawney, could slip into a trance and spout off prophecies; some could see relative distances into the future with absolute certainty.

Luna was particularly blessed — or cursed, as she often felt — in that she saw everything that could ever possibly happen. It was as though there were strings shooting out of everyone that showed every decision they could make and then every subsequent decision after that. Hermione had once explained to her the concept of a muggle dichotomous tree. Every decision branched off the main tree, and with every decision you made, options from the unchosen branch became unavailable. It was the exact same thing she saw with people's glowing strings - when one choice was made, the other options from that point died.

It was like living in a constant time lapse. Most of the time she could ignore it, push it to the back of her mind. However, some people, like Harry, had so many possibilities that it was impossible _not_ to see them. That much stimulation was incredibly painful, and no pain potion had ever been able to touch it.

Even worse than the physical pain was the isolation. Her grandmother had been incredibly secretive about her gift and had impressed the same urgency upon Luna. No matter how honorable or magnanimous they may be, any person with too much knowledge of the future could change the world irrevocably. It was rarely for the better. She had to hope that her own meddling wouldn't be just as detrimental.

She needed to stop thinking; it hurt too much. Luna tugged her pillow over her head and blissfully faded into sleep.

* * *

Luna managed to make it through the next DA meeting without actually running away, but she was still the first one out the door. When Harry caught up with her the next morning after breakfast, he quietly pulled her aside with a concerned look on his face.

"Luna, I want you to know that you can be honest with me. Do you feel uncomfortable during our, ahem, practices?" he asked, glancing around for members of the Inquisitorial Squad.

"Of course not, Harry," she brushed him off, knowing that this conversation was doomed from the start. "I'm really just very tired by the time we're finished. All the stray nargles and whatnot."

Harry furrowed his brow in disbelief. "Your magic is incredibly strong the whole time, even at the very end. I don't know that I believe you. And I'm a little irritated that you'd lie to me."

Luna blushed and looked away from his hard gaze. "I can't explain this to you, Harry. Can you just trust me that this has nothing to do with you or the DA or anything anyone has done? This is one hundred percent a _me_ problem."

"Well if you've got a problem, maybe we can fix it together," Harry urged her. "And if I can't fix it, you know we can get Hermione on it — she can solve anything. And you know that Neville and Gin and Ron and the whole lot of us would be willing to do anything to help you. And—"

"Harry," she said firmly. "There are things I can't tell you for your own good. I just need you to trust me." She watched as several of Harry's branches stopped glowing and died.

"Trust is earned, Luna," he muttered as he turned away, leaving her alone in the Entrance Hall.

She shivered. He'd told her the same thing the first time around, but at least the branches showed that holding onto Harry's friendship and trust was still an option. It wasn't the positive ending she'd hoped for, but this time it wouldn't lead to the end of the Wizarding world. Probably...

* * *

Luna groaned as she felt the Protean Charm heat her fake galleon with a new message. She scanned it and immediately flopped back against her bed in defeat. Of course this would happen as she was sleeping off one of her "episodes". At least they sent the message out to everyone this time. She would be able to stop this disaster before it started.

She raced to meet her friends, hoping against hope that this wasn't the bad idea she was expecting. As soon as she laid eyes on Harry, Luna fought not to sag to the ground in despair. Every single branch coming from Harry ended in the maiming, if not death, of at least one of their friends or the Order members.

Before she could open her mouth to protest, a new line branched off of Harry. If she stopped him now, the branches showed he'd likely never trust her again. And from the various futures she could see for Harry, she knew that her help and his trust in her were absolutely integral to the overall salvation of the Wizarding world. She bit her tongue and fought back her tears.

* * *

As Voldemort's voice echoed over the grounds one last time, Luna's eyes couldn't help but seek out Harry. A quick glance showed he was nowhere nearby. Luna continued to move about, doing what she could to help clean up from the first half of the battle, but she kept one eye on alert in case Harry showed up. She knew what he had to do, and she wanted to give him any encouragement that she could before he walked into the Forest to his death.

Despite her searching, she never found him. She had to assume he'd used the invisibility cloak. It wasn't surprising; a lot of Harry's possible futures had included it. Now she just had to wait.

After what felt like years, the castle was summoned outside to face Voldemort. Luna forced herself to walk slowly with the rest of its occupants. She knew that, though there was a distinct possibility that Harry was dead, there was a slim chance he'd survived. It all depended on Narcissa Malfoy.

As she reached the door, Luna faltered. She wasn't sure how she would react if she saw Harry's lifeless body, all the possible futures gone dim, his threads completely snapped.

She pressed on and had to suppress a sigh of relief when she saw Harry in Hagrid's arms, his future branches glowing even more brightly than before. There was a lot healing in all of their futures, but Luna thought that, of all the possible endings, this was one she could be pleased with.


	10. Bring It On Home

**Written for QLFC, Season 6, Finals- Round 3 (?)**

Team: Wigtown Wanderers

Position: Seeker

Prompt: F.R.I.E.N.D.S: I'll Be There For You — The Rembrandts

Words: 2184

AN: This story is not canon/epilogue compliant in pretty much any shape, form, or fashion. But given that I didn't want to work within canon constraints, I decided to ignore it all. Hope you enjoy it anyway!

* * *

Bring It On Home

Hermione threw the flashing yellow memo back down on her desk with a scowl. Early morning meetings with her boss, Mr. Branstone, were _never_ a good thing. Everyone knew that was department-speak for "clear out your desk". She had known her "werewolves are people, too" crusade wasn't going to go over well at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but she hadn't expected this. _Fired_. Hermione couldn't really grasp the concept. Was it that she was a Muggle-born? Was is it that she was a witch? Or was it simply that the wizarding world was still too backward to accept change? She fought back the tears as she realized that this was likely the end of her career at the Ministry. She'd never considered a life doing anything other than working here and fighting to make a difference for the marginalized. Shaking herself, she conjured a cardboard box and magically packed her office; there was no point in staying any longer than necessary. She'd just have to go somewhere she knew she was wanted.

Ron tossed the last of his paperwork onto the secretary's desk before Apparating back to his flat. Merlin, he hated his new partner! Harry's move to a desk job hadn't been surprising - " _gotta keep The-Wizard-Who-Won safe!"_ Kingsley had explained. It still sucked going from working with the person he trusted most to someone he barely knew. Even worse, his new partner was Lancaster. So what if the guy had been an auror for the past 15 years? There was a reason his career had stalled at Auror instead ascending to a squadron leader or Senior Auror - no one wanted to work with the prick! Now he had a giant chip on his shoulder about being paired with one of the war heroes, and Lancaster was determined to prove he was just a good as Ron, even if it killed them both. To top it all off, he refused to do any of the paperwork! Ron grabbed a butterbeer from the cooling box, cracked it open, and took a deep swig. He sighed as the carbonation burned his throat, burned like the words he forced down every time Lancaster opened his mouth. Ron was beyond ready to go back to being around people he actually liked.

Luna dropped her bags by the front door and headed straight for the kitchen. The food in Peru was delicious, but all the spices were foreign and hard for her British palate to get accustomed to. As she prepared herself a proper cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, she pondered her most recent expedition. Patagonia was supposed to be it! She'd dedicated half a decade to hunting the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, following every lead, every hint of a sighting that cropped up on her radar. When Rolf Scamander had told her that some of the locals were describing a rare, mysterious creature that sounded just like a Snorkack, she just _knew_ she was going to find it this time. She'd saved for ages just to afford the International Apparition permit, not to mention all the supplies for a two week trip to Peru. Then there had been the planning, the time off work, the leaving her friends and family. _And it was all for nothing_. She knew her father was going to be so disappointed - he'd been planning to break the news on the front page of the Quibbler's next edition, finally vindicated after decades of mockery. She dreaded telling him that both their dreams had been dashed again. Luna drained her cup and stretched - at least she knew she had friends who would never be disappointed in her.

Harry gingerly placed his glasses on the coffee table and rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was going to be a pain. He shook out the copy of the Daily Prophet in his lap and stared at the moving photograph. He hadn't really loved Daphne, but it still hurt to see her flashing that enormous engagement ring about like it was a trophy. Malfoy's smug grin didn't help either. The Prophet was sure to owl him for a statement tomorrow; it was big news for The-Boy-Who-Lived's former flame to move on so quickly. Harry flopped back into his comfy chair. He didn't care that Daphne was engaged; he didn't care that his other two exes were in their own blissfully happy relationships. He just kept wondering when it was going to be _his_ turn. Was it too much to ask, after all he had been through, that fate would help him find someone to love him for who he was? Not as a wizard with billions of galleons in his vault, not as the Wizard-Who-Won, not even as a hot-shot young Auror on his way to the top. Just as Harry Potter, the man who hated cooked carrots and always forgot to turn the kettle off. He called Dobby for a fire-whiskey - might was well get a head start.

Ginny slammed her broom down on the locker room bench. _Half a meter._ She'd been an arm's length from catching the Snitch when that little upstart Seeker from the Wanderers - Ryan? Ronan? Rory? Something vaguely Irish - had snatched it from above. She couldn't even bring herself to be angry at the man for beating her. It had been a brilliant catch, a complete vertical dive that had seen him land with a hard thud but an enormous grin. But Ginny was angry that it made her look like a fool for failing to block him and nearly falling off her own broom as he plowed by her. She'd only lost the snitch a dozen times in her career, and a quarter of those had happened this season. Had the other Seekers gotten that much better? Or was she just losing her touch? She carded her fingers through her sweaty hair. If she didn't step up her game, and quickly, she'd find herself riding the bench instead of their rookie. With a frustrated sigh, Ginny headed for the showers - no use in following that train of thought without a little liquid help.

Neville slammed his bedroom door shut, nearly cracking the ancient wood. He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to tune out his gran's shrieking from two floors below. _Damn Amplifying Charm._ He was so tired of her complaining about his "stagnation" - he wasn't married, he wasn't ready to take over as Head of the family, he wasn't everything she was expecting of him. With a huff, Neville threw himself onto his mattress. Why couldn't she understand that _he_ was perfectly happy with where he was in life? Before she'd started going off on him, he'd been trying to tell her about Professor Sprout and how she kept hinting that he should take over for her someday. Professorship at Hogwarts was a prestigious position! Not to mention he had a fledgling nursery that did decent business and was probably going to expand to mail-order in the next few years. He had a great career outlook, a growing business, and a great group of friends who always had his back. What more did she want from him? He glanced at the clock and leapt up from the bed, ignoring his gran's insistent yelling. He had his own life to live, and, if he didn't hurry, he was going to be late.

* * *

They trickled into the Leaky Cauldron one by one, taking up residence in the back corner booth as they did every Saturday night. Some weeks there were only two or three present, the others pulled away by work, family, or just life in general. But on nights like tonight, everyone would be there. All was right with the world.

"Neville!" Harry cried, slapping his last friend to arrive on the back. "How are those underwater cactuses working out for you? I figured that late freeze last week would give you trouble."

"Surprisingly they loved it! I think they needed just a little more rest before getting ready to grow again," Neville replied. "I figure they'll go for nearly 150 Galleons once they're ready to propagate at the end of the summer."

Hermione smiled. "That's great, Nev! That nursery of yours is going to be a big hit. There was a rumor going around the Ministry that you were going to get the knew Potions supply contract for the DMLE."

"You'll have to keep an ear to the ground for me, Hermione," Neville grinned. "That way I know who to sweet talk at the next post-War function."

"I wouldn't count on that," Hermione groused.

"What she's saying is she got fired," Ron said through a mouthful of chips. "Old Branstone didn't like her 'overly progressive ideas'. Damned old school supremacist."

Ginny perked up. "I know you were hoping for a job with the Ministry, but you might look into working with Fred and George. They've developed a ton of products for the DOM, and-"

"And maybe they could help you get back into the Ministry that way," Luna finished.

Hermione nodded, almost visibly chewing on the idea. "Honestly that sounds more promising than anything I can come up with. And worst case scenario, I know it will challenge my mind and let me work with people I like. Thanks, you guys!"

"Glad someone will be able to work with their friends again," Ron grumbled.

"I was going to ask how it was going with Lancaster, but I think I have my answer." Harry winced. "Sorry, mate. You know I wouldn't have left you if I'd had any kind of choice."

The rest of them shared a curious glance, so Ron launched into a rundown of their latest mission in which Lancaster had petrified Ron instead of the enemy and then proceeded to nearly crush him under a pile of debris with a poorly aimed Reducto. And of course, the man still got away. It sounded more like a slapstick comedy skit than actual police work, and the rest of the friends couldn't keep from laughing along with Ron's misfortune.

"That man is hazardous to your health," Ginny remarked, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Neville, you might need to find a way to put this guy out of commision."

"I do know of a few plants with some interesting properties," he mused.

Before anyone else could join in, a flashbulb sparked from across the dingy room. They all looked over, and Harry groaned at the eager young journalist scribbling away on his parchment. The-Boy-Who-Lived shot Old Tom a look, and the young man was eagerly ushered out of the pub, his notes reduced to ashes.

"Daphne?" Luna asked. Harry nodded forlornly.

"Don't worry, they'll quit talking about that when my butt is riding a bench instead of a broom in a few matches," Ginny grumbled.

Ron sighed. "So you've missed a few Snitches. They're not gonna bench you, Gin. You're still one of, if not _the_ best Seeker in the league. And that's coming from a life-long Cannons fan."

"Yeah, you're just in a rough patch," Hermione assured her. "Muggles call it a slump. You'll get through it and back to your old self in no time."

Ginny snorted. "If you say so. But I'm tired of talking about my dying career and all of this terrible news. Luna, tell us all about your trip to Peru!"

"It was lovely," Luna sighed, "but it was all in vain. There wasn't a single sign of a Crumple Horned Snorkack."

Everyone else avoided her gaze; they loved their friend, but they still didn't believe in half the creatures she talked about.

"Daddy will be so disappointed in me…" Luna murmured.

Neville patted her arm. "He might be disappointed _for_ you, but I doubt he'd ever be disappointed _in_ you. I know we aren't." The four others nodded their agreement.

"Thanks, Nev," she whispered.

Harry cleared his throat, trying to push through the slight awkwardness in the air. "So, Nev, tell us more about this offer from Professor Sprout. Sounds like a pretty good deal."

Neville brightened and began gushing about his conversations with Professor Sprout, and thus the group moved onto happier subjects.

The night passed far too quickly, filled with hugs, commiseration, and plenty of laughs. But that's how it always went. Even when life was hard, being together was as easy as breathing, and there wasn't a greater support system to be found anywhere on earth. This booth, these people, this feeling - whether they admitted it or not, this was each person's favorite place to be. It was warm. It was safe. It was home.


	11. All's Fair in Love and Basketball

The Houses Competition

Hufflepuff, HoH

Drabble

Prompt: [Action] Attending a Muggle basketball game as a witch/wizard

WC: 942

AN: Not a canon pairing, so just a heads up on that.

* * *

All's Fair in Love and Basketball

"I thought you loved that football thing-y. Why aren't we going to see the American version of that?" Seamus muttered, staring at the pair of tickets in his hand.

"I do, I do! But it's really not a big deal over here. Americans are mad about their own kind of football—it's kind of a knockoff of that rugby game I took you to in Bath," Dean explained. "Far too complicated if you ask me. But basketball is something uniquely American, and it's absolutely thrilling. We have to go while we're here! Please, please, _please_?"

Seamus bit off a sigh. He hoped to Merlin this was more exciting than his boyfriend's beloved football or, worse, American baseball. He'd fallen asleep after three periods of that Red Stockings spring training —or whatever—game he'd been dragged to yesterday. Though that British rugby match hadn't been half bad—plenty of excitement, if a bit too much violence. He really didn't understand why sweet, artistic, Quidditch-loving Dean was so obsessed with Muggle sports.

But, however inexplicably, that's what he loved, so Seamus replied, "Sounds like a plan!"

* * *

As he and Dean wove their way through the teeming throng of people, Seamus' first thought was, ' _Well, at least this one is indoors.'_ Not that the air conditioning did anything to combat the combination of a thousand bodies and the sweltering Florida heat.

As with his other experiences at Muggle sporting events, Seamus' first stop was at the concession stand. He played it safe with just popcorn and bottled water, but he had to smile at Dean's excitement over his giant pretzel, nachos, and Cuban hotdog.

The pair wound their way to their seats and settled about halfway up the bottom level, not quite centered with the wooden playing field below.

"Okay, time for a quick breakdown of the rules," Dean said around a mouthful of pretzel. "Miami—that's the Heat, they're the white team—is going to try to put the ball in the basket on one side. The Celtics, who are from Oklahoma City and wearing blue, will try to do the same thing on the other end…"

Seamus did his best to listen as Dean droned on and on about lines, points, and fouls. Finally, Dean took a deep breath and asked, "Any questions?"

Seamus waited for his head to stop spinning before shaking it. "I think I've got it. I'll ask if I get confused about something."

They watched the players warm up, and Dean quickly struck up a conversation with the guy in the seat next to him. Seamus listened closely as the other man described the players and teams in great detail. The way he talked, Oklahoma City wasn't the favored team, and the Heat had some new guy named James who was supposed to "put the hurt on them".

The opening ceremony was nice but not overdone, though Seamus thought it would have been better with some WWW fireworks.

The tip-off went to Miami, which made Dean leap for joy and Seamus groan.

"Wait, aren't you cheering for Miami?" Dean asked. "They're the home team!"

Seamus looked at him incredulously. "The way the bloke next to you was talking, the Thunder seem like the underdogs. You know I've got to cheer for the underdog, mate."

Dean smirked. "Then how about a friendly wager. Person with the losing team buys dinner tonight?"

Seamus rolled his eyes. "Fine by me. Though I thought you might have made the wager a bit more interesting. Maybe something involving your favorite silk scarf and—"

"Nope, nope, this is good," Dean said quickly.

The teams were tied at the half. Seamus spent about a minute watching the utterly absurd half-time act—a woman riding a unicycle while balancing bowls on her head—before hitting up the concession stand again.

He sat back down just in time to watch a Miami player jump all the way up to the basket and slam the ball through it.

"Are you _sure_ there's no magic involved here?" Seamus whispered. "There's no way these guys are human if they can do that."

"Yep," Dean said with a pop. "Just lots of talent, muscle, and practice."

The game went down to the wire, but Oklahoma City pulled out the win with a three-point basket in the final second—what someone near them called a "buzzer beater". Seamus whooped and grinned, but he felt a bit sad that his team won; he'd wanted Dean to enjoy this immensely. Then he looked over at Dean and saw him jumping up and down and screaming.

"Did you _see_ that? Sweet Merlin! People come to these things for their whole lives and don't get to see a game like that!" Dean yelled.

Seamus smiled back. One more thing to love about his boyfriend—his indomitable enthusiasm.

* * *

"Thanks for coming with me, Shay," Dean said as they exited the arena. "That was absolutely perfect."

"I actually really enjoyed it," Seamus replied. "I guess some Muggle sports really aren't half bad. Winning the bet was pretty great, too."

Dean grinned. "Glad you think so. Though I do think you'll enjoy the next stop on our tour of Florida even more. You deserve a reward."

"And what would that be?" Seamus asked warily.

"Disney World!" Dean cried.

When Seamus stared at him blankly, Dean rolled his eyes. "The giant amusement park? With all kinds of rides and food and fireworks?"

That perked Seamus up. "Muggles have fireworks?"

Dean nodded. "They're not as mobile as the WWW ones, but they're still pretty amazing. And I figure if you can indulge my love of Muggle sports, I can find you the biggest explosions in Florida."

Seamus grinned broadly. " _Hell yes_!"


	12. Save It For A Rainy Day

**Save It For A Rainy Day**

 **Written for The Houses Competition**

Hufflepuff, HoH

Drabble

Prompt: [Emotion] Hopeful

WC: 921 per Google Docs

AN: Hang around for the hopeful part—good things come to those who wait (and read to the very end)! Somewhat based on the song "Save It For A Rainy Day" by the Jayhawks. If you haven't heard it, I'd highly suggest giving it a quick listen. Their whole "Rainy Day Music" album is great, but this one is my favorite!

 **MC4A Challenge Block**

 **Stacked With:** The Houses Competition; MC4A; Spring Bingo

 **IC:** Yellow Ribbon; Yellow Ribbon Redux; Click Bait It; Seeds; In a Flash; Bow Before the Blacks; Summer Vacation; Gryffindor MC x2

 **Representation:** THC; THC; Bad Puns; New Plans; Barely Made WC!; Sirius Black; Brighton Beach; Sirius\Remus Bromance; Cabin Fever; Depression

 **BC:** YR (N); YRR (N); CBI (); S (); IAF(Y); 3B (N); SV (Y); GMC (N)

 **TBC:** T3 (Thimble; Tether; Terse; Terrarium) [In which Remus simultaneously watches Sirius' butt and removes Mr. Black's head from it.]

 **Space Address (Prompt):** 3C (Eggs)

 **WC:** 921

* * *

" _Padfoot_!" Remus shouted from the other side of the door. "It's nearly ten. Are you just going to sleep the day away again?"

"Shove off, Moony, I'm up!" he growled.

Out of spite, Sirius waited to hear Remus's footsteps fade away before he slipped out of bed and plodded to his bathroom. He dragged himself through some abbreviated morning ablutions, carefully avoiding the mirror. What did it matter if he brushed his hair or flossed? Remus, his "handler," was the only one in the house today, and he'd seen Sirius in worse states.

Sirius spat his toothpaste in the sink and then made the mistake of looking up. He gripped the porcelain sink to steady his hands. It was impossible to believe the man in the mirror was really him.

He'd turned thirty-five a few weeks ago, but the face looking back at him could easily have been 50. He ran a hand through his now shaggy hair, shot through with gray, and sighed. Before his twelve years in Azkaban, he'd been a handsome man, with proud features, a glossy dark ponytail, and a smug, confident demeanor. These days he just looked haggard, gaunt… unrecognizable.

Resisting the urge to put his fist through the mirror, Sirius shoved off the sink and ducked out of the bathroom. He shrugged into some clothes he thought were clean and trudged down to the kitchen.

"Do you want your eggs scrambled or scrambled?" Remus joked, stirring the frying pan.

"Just coffee," Sirius mumbled.

Sensing his best friend's terrible mood, Remus bit back his thoughts on the man's nutrition—or lack thereof. Some fights just weren't worth it.

Breakfast was a silent affair. Sirius spent most of it staring out the grimy window at the early morning sun,sighing.

Finally, Remus could stand it no more. "What's up with you, Sirius? I've seen you brooding, and I've seen angry, but this… sleeping all day, not taking care of yourself. Have you even showered this week?...

"I'm fine," Sirius hissed.

"Like hell," Remus retorted. "You weren't even this bad when you first got back to Britain. What gives?"

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope."

Sirius sighed. "I just… Look at me, Moony. If you didn't know me, how old would you think I am?"

"Why does that matter?" Remus asked.

"It matters because I feel at least a hundred," Sirius explained, slamming his red mug on the table. "I lost so much more than twelve years in that hellhole, and when I got out I just traded one prison for another. _If_ I survive this war, and that's a big if, what witch in her right mind is going to want me? I'll never be able to get married, start a family, grow old with someone. I'm already ancient, and I _lost_ the years of my life. I have no purpose anymore. I don't know where to go from here." He quickly looked back out the window, trying to hide the tears welling in his eyes.

Remus studied him for a moment before levitating their dishes to the sink and charming them to wash.

"Get a shower and dress. Meet me down here in half an hour. And no buts," he said when Sirius started to protest.

* * *

"I still think I need a Glamour Charm," Sirius huffed.

"Brighton is a _Muggle_ seaside town. I thought _Sirius Black_ could use a day in the sun," Remus explained. Sirius couldn't argue.

It was too cold to enjoy the water, so the pair settled on a wooden bench and watched the waves slap against the sand.

"I never planned on becoming a werewolf, you know," Remus murmured.

"I figured," Sirius replied.

"I've spent my whole life not fitting into any of life's pre-set plans. I knew I would never hold a steady job, get married, have kids, live easily. I planned for that. When I was lucky enough to have a little saved and a place to stay, I was happy with it."

"But now Tonks is barking up your tree! You're gonna have all of that!"

"And do you think any of that is easy for me?" Remus grumbled. "I had all these expectations for my life, and she wants me to shoot them all to hell. And I don't know that I can throw them all out the window just for her to toss me into the gutter later. I'm terrified to gain it all and then lose it all."

"She wouldn't do that!"

"Maybe. But I still have a date with her on Saturday."

Sirius punched his arm. "Atta boy, Moons!"

"My _point_ ," Remus said, rubbing his arm, "is that life never goes according to plan. And when it doesn't, there's always another part to play. You're so caught up in what you've lost that you can't see what you might have gained."

Sirius sat back against the bench. Maybe he'd never have a wife and kids. But then he'd never thought he'd be a particularly good father—his own had been atrocious. His fortune was still intact, so he didn't really need to work to be able to give back to the world. He had his godson, his best friend, and some semblance of freedom. All in all, that didn't seem like such a bad lot in life. He'd probably need to really mourn his "lost life" later, but not while he had a sea breeze in his hair and the sun on his face. No, he'd save those thoughts for a rainy day.


	13. Nineteen

**The Houses Competition**

 **Hufflepuff, HoH**

 **Drabble**

 **Prompt:** [Event] Birthday

 **Additional:** Same MC as the rest of Hufflepuff (Blaise Zabini)

 **WC:** 888, per Google Docs

 **AN:** Yet another post-war fic that completely ignores everything from the epilogue. Y'all really should know the drill by now. :)

 **Warning:** brief mentions of deaths related to the Second Wizarding War and implied alcohol misuse.

Nineteen

Blaise slammed yet another empty shot glass onto the scarred tabletop. "Some birthday this is turning out to be," he grumbled under his breath. Around him the sounds and smells of the Three Broomsticks swirled into a miasma of sensation, but Blaise was too caught up in his own thoughts to take notice.

Somehow he'd thought nineteen would be better. The war was over, he'd avoided conscription into Voldemort's doomed little army, and he was still a free man. Everything should have been perfect. But at least when he'd turned eighteen in the hell of Hogwarts under Death Eater occupation he'd been surrounded by his friends.

 _Friends_.

Blaise swallowed hard when he thought of all the lives that had been ruined by senseless, bigoted violence. He hadn't been close with the now deceased Vince Crabbe, but even just rooming with a guy for seven years basically made you family. Greg's parents had both died in the final battle, and he was serving a three year sentence in Azkaban. Tracey Davis lost their father when the Ministry fell. Before the dust and ash of battle had had time to settle, Daphne had run away to live with family in Greece, and, according to Astoria, she was still having violent nightmares. Pansy was still too afraid to leave her family's home, and of course Draco was under house arrest. Merlin only knew where Theo had escaped to.

In true Slytherin fashion, Blaise had slithered his way out of everything, even guilt-by-association. Not that he'd been guilty of anything at all; perception was simply ninety percent of the truth. But what did that matter? He'd crawled back into the light of day with only his shadow for company. For nine. Damn. Months.

He threw back another shot of firewhiskey, not even bothering to chase it with his butterbeer. He needed the burn, the fire in his throat. He needed to feel something other than loneliness. Blaise had hoped that getting out tonight, being around other people, would ease that knot it his chest. He ran his fingers over where he imagined it would be—nope, still there.

Cacophonous laughter echoed through the pub. Blaise's eyes instinctively traced the sound to a large gathering in another corner of the pub.

"Potter," Blaise mumbled. "Of course it's bloody Potter and his merry band of heroes."

The Boy Who Lived (Again) had his arm around a pretty blonde girl. He looked down at her and smiled broadly. He looked back at the others gathered with them, said a few words that Blaise couldn't hear, and raised his glass in an obvious toast.

Disgusted that he was more than a little jealous, Blaise dropped his burning eyes to his collection of empty shot glasses. This wasn't working. There was no reason to stay here. Besides, it was cheaper and slightly more dignified to get pissed at home.

As he stood and gathered his coat to leave, Blaise felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He turned and looked down into the most beautiful pair of gray eyes he'd ever seen. It was the blonde girl with Potter. Blaise knew her, but couldn't remember why.

"Blaise Zabini. It's so good to see you," she said, smiling softly.

"It's, uh, it's good to see you too," Blaise stuttered, searching for her name. Half a second after the silence had become awkward, it clicked. "Luna Lovegood, right?"

Luna nodded, her grin growing. "You helped me take my trunk onto the train my first year. I'm surprised you remembered me."

"You're pretty unforgettable," Blaise muttered. "For more reasons than one."

He started to say something else, anything just to keep her talking, when she reached up to touch her necklace. He watched her delicate fingers trace the edges of the small, flat copper circles that lay at the base of her pale throat. When he looked closely, he saw there were small, unmoving heads stamped into the metal. Blaise's brow furrowed.

"Do you like it?" Luna asked. "It was my birthday gift from Harry. They're American Muggle coins called pennies."

His fingers reached out of their own volition and gently touched the loop of coins around her neck. They lingered momentarily against her pulse, and Blaise couldn't help but admire the contrast.

"Beautiful," he whispered.

Luna slid her hand into his. "Come join us," she said, tugging gently. "Two birthdays are better than one."

Blaise quirked a brow at her. "How did you know it was my birthday?"

She simply smiled back at him, the mysterious twinkle in her eye far too much like Dumbledore's for comfort. Before he could protest, she pulled him through the crowd.

When they finally stumbled to a halt at the edge of the group, Blaise tentatively looked around. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Neville smiled back at him, throwing out greetings when he met their gazes.

Blaise glanced over at Harry. Harry simply handed him a pint of butterbeer and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"I hope you weren't planning on leaving yet, birthday boy," Harry said, smiling. "Luna spilled the beans. This round's on me."

The night passed in a blur of laughter, butterbeer, and terrible singing. Blaise thought it was perfect—almost as perfect as the way he'd spent the entire night sandwiched between Harry and Luna. Nineteen was looking up after all.


	14. Forgotten Lessons

**The Houses Competition**

 **Hufflepuff, HoH**

 **Standard**

 **Prompt:** [Time Period] Post-Next Generation Era

 **Additional:** No repeated time period within the house

 **Word Count:** 1531, per Google Docs

 **AN:** Since this is set in the Post-Next Generation Era, Medora Lupin is (I hope obviously) an original character, as is Oppenheimer. They're mine, but nothing else is. This story is (incredibly loosely) tied to another one of my one-shots, "Thirty Years Later". Not required to understand the story at all, but it might worth taking a look at if you're interested in Oppenheimer. Also I'd like to make the disclaimer that, since this is set so far in the future, nothing here can really be deemed canon-compliant (mostly because canon doesn't extend this far, and if it does, I'm scrapping it). I think that's about it. Thanks for reading!

Forgotten Lessons

Medora Lupin slipped quietly out of the castle, patting her cloak pockets to make sure she had what she needed.

Notebook? Check.

Pen? Check.

Map? Check.

She pulled it out and searched it once more. She, her quarry, and the immortal Mrs. Norris were the only ones moving around at this hour. Even though she wasn't _technically_ breaking the rules, since she'd already been to bed and woken up, Medora knew that it would be best if she didn't run into anyone unexpected at four in the morning.

She pulled her hair—long and dark today for her secret mission—around to help camouflage herself in the shadows. She pulled her long black cloak tighter over her robes and crept slowly down the hill to the greenhouses. Through the green plastic walls she could see the headmaster doing… something. She may have been a seventh year, but she was still too short to see over the giant Flutterby bushes the fifth years were cultivating for graduation. Medora snuck around to the door. It was slightly ajar, and from this angle she could almost see—

"If you're going to watch me, I'd appreciate it if you'd stay in my line of sight," the headmaster said, startling Medora. "And shut the door behind you."

She slunk into the greenhouse, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "Sorry, Uncle Neville. I was just curious about what you're doing down here."

Headmaster Longbottom put down his spade and quirked an eyebrow at her. "You'd think someone with your tendency to snoop would have a bit more stealth. Honestly, you're about as stealthy as your grandmother was, though Teddy is only marginally better himself. And how exactly did you know I was down here?"

Medora's flush deepened. "Would you believe me if I told you I woke up early to take a walk and just happened to see you?"

"Not one bit," Neville said, suppressing a smirk. "You've been late to too many early classes to make me believe _you_ of all people woke up early on a Sunday to take a stroll around the grounds. In truth I should think you had the help of that map that's been shuffled around the Potter/Lupin family for a few generations now. But that's not what you came down here to talk about, is it?"

Medora let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "No, sir. I have some questions, and I think you're the only one who's going to be able—or willing—to answer them."

Neville's brow furrowed. "Is everything alright at home, Medora? I know Arthur's been feeling a bit down, especially after Molly's passing, but I thought he was doing a bit better."

"It's nothing like that," she assured him. "I'm honestly more worried about Papa Harry."

"He's not ready to retire, is he?" Neville grinned, turning back to the small vine he was repotting. "I knew that old war horse wasn't ready to give up hunting the bad guys, no matter what Hermione and Ron say."

Medora shook her head. "He's beyond ready to retire. Says he wants to spend more time with us grandkids. But I don't think he's going to seriously consider coming home until Oppenheimer is dealt with."

Neville froze, stiff as a board. "You weren't supposed to find out about that."

"Hufflepuffs are very good finders," Medora muttered under her breath.

Shaking himself, Neville turned to face her again. "Harry, Ron, and Hermione will deal with Oppenheimer. Everything will be fine," he assured her.

"I know that," she answered with confidence. "Papa Harry won't rest until he knows we're safe. But what I don't understand is why. Why is this Oppenheimer person so, so… so terrible?"

Neville's eyes narrowed. " _What_ exactly do you know?"

With a deep breath Medora said, "What I know is pieced together from snippets of conversations I've heard through the years. Oppenheimer started out just spreading anti-pureblood propaganda around Russia, and no one really took them seriously. Somehow it progressed to fear-mongering and petty vandalism, and everyday people in Russia started to take notice. When they started making small raids on government facilities, Papa Harry had just taken over as head of the DMLE and kind of gave the Russian Ministry a bit of a shove in the right direction. They hunted Oppenheimer and started putting out their own propaganda, and it seemed to work. Oppenheimer disappeared, and things went back to normal. That's been almost a decade. But over Christmas I heard Papa Harry telling you and the other adults that they were 'wreaking havoc' in Russia again and that this time the anti-pureblood agenda was catching on, and quickly. So why are they back, Uncle Neville? Why is someone trying to ruin other peoples' lives like this?"

He smiled sadly at her and brushed a bit of dirt off the shoulder of her yellow and black trimmed robes. "Sometimes I forget that your generation is so far removed from the events that irrevocably shaped mine. I think we were all just so glad the Second War was over that we didn't do a good job of teaching you about the way and the reasons why all of it happened. Medora, what do you know of Voldemort?"

"I know he was a bad guy, and Papa Harry beat him when he was my age," she answered. "But I really only know what I've read in my history books. We don't ever talk about it. I tried to ask a few times when I was younger, but everyone shut me down. I think it's really hard for Papa Harry to talk about it."

"It's hard for a lot of us to talk about…" Neville whispered. He pulled in a deep breath and conjured a pair of comfy-looking armchairs. "Have a seat, Medora. It's high time you learned about the things we lost a lot of wonderful people for."

For the next four hours, Neville explained the history of both the First and Second Wizarding Wars to his best friend's granddaughter. Occasionally Medora saw him shudder and take a long moment to collect himself, as though the memories still brought him physical pain. She scribbled down everything in her notebook, not wanting to miss a single tiny detail. When he'd finished, Neville called an elf and asked for some brandy. Even though it was only mid-morning, he poured them each a generous helping. Medora downed hers quickly, hoping it would stop her shivers of fear and anger.

"And now you know why Harry and the rest of us are so concerned with this Oppenheimer person. We've seen firsthand just how quickly and violently this kind of rhetoric can take over an entire population. We lost too many precious people to let it happen again anywhere," Neville finished.

"But what can _I_ do?" Medora pressed. "You and Papa Harry and everyone else shouldn't be the only ones trying to beat this. I can fight!"

Neville placed a calming hand on her arm. "I appreciate that, Medora. But there's no fighting to be done right now, at least not in a physical sense. What Harry is trying to do is prevent that completely. So right now the best thing you can do is simply live your life. Go finish that Charms mastery I know you have lined up. Help make the world the best place you can, and be thankful for the peace. But you can also make sure that everyone, especially your peers, know exactly what this peace cost. Talk to them about why hate speech is dangerous. Remind them why it's important that everyone be treated fairly. Explain the past to them so that all of you can learn from it. Evil is a weed. Given the smallest chance, it will sprout up anywhere and, once it takes root, grow like wild. You can rip out the weed, but it will always take more time and effort and cause more damage. The best thing you can do it keep the area clear and prevent the weed from growing in the first place."

"Always the plant metaphors," Medora muttered, rolling her eyes but smiling. "Thank you, Uncle Neville. I'll try to do what you said, but I'm still just a kid. I don't know that it will do much good."

"Your Papa Harry was your age when he killed Voldemort," Neville reminded her.

"And so were you when you sassed him and then cut the head off the last horcrux," Medora finished resolutely.

Neville nodded. "You're right. But enough of that. I believe that, if we leave now, we can make it back up to the Great Hall for Sunday roast. And I certainly don't want to miss out on those delightful roasted potatoes Winky makes."

As she walked back up to the castle with the headmaster, Medora's resolve solidified. Oppenheimer may be far away, but she could still do her part to keep threat of evil at bay. If that wasn't enough, then she'd help deal with it when the time came. As Hagrid was so fond of saying, "What's coming will come, and we'll meet it when it does." And Medora knew that she would be ready.


	15. Friends in the Right Places

**Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition**

 **Wigtown Wanderers, Seeker**

 **Prompt:** "The LumberJack Song". Best lyric? "I cut down trees, I wear high heels. Suspendies and a bra. I wish I'd been a girlie, just like my dear Mama." Write about a transgender character.

 **Word Count:** 1862, per GoogleDocs

 ****Warning for deadnaming****

 **AN:** Please know that this is the prompt I was given. I was not wholly comfortable with the idea of writing a transgender character because it's not something I have any experience with myself. I didn't feel qualified to do this, even though that's what asked of me. That said, I tried to do plenty reading and research, and if I have not done the subject justice, then I pray that I have at least done no harm. Again, in case you missed it above, I'd like to warn you that there are instances of deadnaming here, so please be aware. And as always, feedback is welcomed!

* * *

Friends in the Right Places

Pine wreaths hung on every door, the aroma of mulled wine and eggnog wafted out of the Leaky Cauldron, and somewhere chestnuts were roasting. Theo breathed deeply, reveling in the Christmas atmosphere of Diagon Alley —he'd have to hunt some of those chestnuts down later.

For now, he just strolled through the streets, taking a few moments of this peace to think about what he could possibly buy Luna for Christmas. He already had presents for the rest of his friends, and he'd sent gift baskets to all his important Ministry contacts, but Luna still stumped him. Theo snorted at himself. Most guys would have found their girlfriends a gift more than a week before Christmas, but none of them were dating Luna Lovegood.

He smiled at the thought of her. Before he'd met her, he'd never thought the pretty blonde with the far away eyes would be so…down to earth. Sure, she believed in some unconventional creatures and conspiracy theories, but she had this way of putting everything that came along in perfect perspective. And her sense of humor! She could say the most outlandish, even risque things with such sincerity and innocence, a mischievous twinkle in her eye all the while. Theo loved the way she made him laugh at the unexpected.

It had nearly broken his heart to fall in love with her. He had been so sure that she could never accept him for who he was—who he had been. But she had surprised him, yet again, when she had kissed him last New Year's Eve. Theo thanked the stars every morning that his Luna was so supremely confident in who she was and what she wanted. But that also made gift-buying a little difficult.

The most logical place to start looking for a gift was the bookstore. Luna could spend what felt like years in Flourish and Blotts—maybe the clerk or shopkeeper would remember her and be able to give him some insight.

Theo wove his way through the crowds to cross the street. He took deep calming breaths, trying to ignore the constant press of bodies against his own. In an attempt not to be crushed by the throngs of people, Theo just went along with the crowd instead of trying to cut directly through it. Finally, he made it to the other side of the street several shops down from his target. He shook himself, trying to brush away the feeling of so many other people against him. He looked into the shop window to see where he'd ended up, and his breath caught in his throat.

Twilfitt and Tattings.

Theo squeezed his eyes closed and tried to breathe again. " _It's just a store, it's just a store, it's just a store,_ " he thought to himself. He quickly fought his way back down to Flourish and Blotts, dashed back into the History section—no one ever went there—and allowed himself to have a minor freakout.

He'd been avoiding that store for half a decade, and he'd done a bang up job of it so far. Why did he have break that streak today?

Theo quietly picked through every book in the store, not really paying attention to the titles of any of them. He just needed to feel their hard spines under his fingers, to breathe in that new book smell. Holding physical evidence of knowledge and truth in his hands was calming.

He selected a few titles that sounded like something Luna might enjoy and brought them to the counter for purchase. As he was paying, he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

"Blaise!" Theo cried, pulling the man into a brief hug. "Happy Christmas! How are you?"

"Doing well, doing well," Blaise said with a smile. "Out for a bit of last minute shopping?"

"Yeah, I still don't have Luna's gift," Theo replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

Blaise laughed heartily. "Why doesn't that surprise me? It took you a month to ask her on a date even after she snogged you at the Longbottoms' New Year's party. If you're looking for ideas, though, I just picked up a very nice mokeskin bag for my mother at Twilfit and Tattings, though there were several other useful options. Apparently they've come up with a way to duplicate the skin without harming the lizard. Something about being cruelty free, I don't know. But I figure that's just…"

Blaise stopped talking when he noticed the look of fear frozen on Theo's face.

"Everything okay, man? I—shit, I completely forgot about the Twilfitt and Tattings thing. I am so sorry," Blaise muttered.

Theo shook his head. "It's fine, I promise. Just a bit shaken today with the crowds and all, you know?"

"Of course, of course," Blaise said, clapping him on the arm. "Listen, I need to head back and get these wrapped. We should catch up and have a few later, yeah?"

"Sounds good, mate!" Theo called after his disappearing friend.

He picked up his package and headed once more into the fray. Over the next few hours he visited nearly every shop in Diagon Alley, searching frantically for a present. He couldn't just buy her a scarf or mittens—Luna preferred to buy her own clothing because no one else could quite capture her eclectic taste. Jewelry was out for the same reason.

As the crowds thinned, Theo found himself back in front of _that_ store. He was out of options. There had to be something in here. Maybe it wouldn't be as bad as he remembered.

With a deep breath, Theo pushed open the door.

The little tinkling bell that announced his entrance sent chills up his spine. It still smelled like incense and roses, the way it did in his nightmares.

"I can't do this," he muttered under his breath as he quickly turned to leave.

"Theodora!" Vesta Caywood called after him.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath. No matter how much the woman made his head spin and his stomach roll, it would be in very poor taste to just leave without speaking to her now. Afterall, she had friends in very high places. Damn his mother and her violent insistence on good manners.

He turned and shot her a grimace. "It's still Theo, Mrs. Caywood."

The papery old woman tsked. "You're still about that nonsense of being a boy? I told your mother you'd grow out of that if she'd just help you act like a more proper young lady."

"It was nice to see you, Mrs. Caywood, but I really must be going," Theo whispered. But he should have known that wouldn't be enough for Vesta Caywood.

"Now come," the old woman said, grabbing him by the arm, "I got a new shipment of dress robes that you must see. I even have some that can accentuate that, um, rather small bust of yours. Yes, pink is definitely still your color—"

The door in the back burst open, and a figure appeared in the doorway, the bright light from the stockroom framing her silhouette. Theo wasn't sure if he believed in God, but he prayed it was an angel sent to deliver him from this evil woman. His next choice was for the ground to open and literally swallow him whole, but he was really hoping for an angel.

"Theo!" the angel cried, flinging herself at him in a tentacled-hug. "It's so good to see you again!"

Lavender turned to the wizened proprietor. "Mrs. Caywood, would you mind terribly if I caught up with this old school pal of mine? Thank you so much!" she said quickly, tugging Theo away.

Mrs. Caywood harrumphed but headed back to man the register.

Seeing the terror and anxiety still etched on Theo's face, Lavender pulled him into the stock room. She sat him down on an empty crate and pulled a butterbeer from some unseen place. "Drink this. It's probably not as strong as you'd like, but it's what I keep on hand."

Theo mechanically downed the butterbeer, each sip slowly loosening the tense knot of panic in his gut. When he'd finished the bottle, he swiped a hand across his mouth. "Thanks, Lavender. I owe you one."

She shrugged. "No big deal. I have to work with the crazy old biddy every day, and I don't have any real history with her. I couldn't imagine facing her if I was in your shoes."

Theo shook his head mournfully. "I really thought when I got to Hogwarts and the castle automatically put me in the boy's dorm that everyone would just accept it. Even my mother had come around by that point. But through everything—weddings, Christmas dinners, the Yule Ball—Mrs. Caywood has insisted on trying to put me in a dress and calling me _that_ name. I haven't come back in here since I needed dress robes for the Yule Ball…"

"I take it that didn't go well?" Lavender asked softly.

"Not in the slightest," he replied. "Mother stepped away to look at dresses, and Mrs. Caywood shoved me into a dressing room and, and, and… she charmed me into a giant pink dress. It was more than a bit traumatizing, if I'm being honest. And I… Well let's just say I found out I wasn't too old for a fit of accidental magic."

Lavender blinked at him owlishly. "You're the reason Vesta needs to keep replacing that section of the ceiling?"

For the first time since he'd arrived in Diagon Alley, Theo chuckled. "I suppose so. Serves her right, if you ask me."

"Agreed!" Lavender laughed. "So what made you decide to face down your demons and walk in here today?"

"Still need a Christmas present for Luna," he said. "I couldn't find one anywhere else, so this was kind of a last ditch effort. I ran into Blaise and he said something about mokeskin bags."

Her face lit up. "Ooh, yes! Vegan mokeskin is the next big thing I promise," she said, leading him back into the main store. She prattled on about shapes and sizes and patterns, and Theo found her chatter oddly comforting. He even tried to listen as she explained the Muggle concept of veganism, though he was pretty sure it would never catch on in the wizarding world.

With Lavender's help, Theo picked out a lovely multicolor messenger bag for Luna. It was large enough to stick pretty much anything in—Theo would have to remind her that just because an animal _could_ fit inside didn't mean that it should.

"I couldn't have done this without you," Theo said as Lavender rung him up. "Thank you."

"It was nothing," Lavender shrugged. "But if you ever need to come in again, just send me an owl the day before, and I'll keep an eye out for you, Vesta be damned. I've got your back."

Grabbing his purchase, Theo grinned at her. "It's a deal!"

"Have a happy Christmas!" Lavender called after him, waving.

Theo stepped out into the brisk winter air, took a deep, cleansing breath, and smiled. It was good to have friends in high places, but it was even better to have friends in the right places.


	16. The Last Name on the List

**Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition**

 **Wigtown Wanderers, Seeker**

 **Prompt:** Scorpios are constantly plotting several steps ahead in order to orchestrate an eventual checkmate. This doesn't mean their intentions are necessarily nefarious. Write about a character(s) that seems conniving and manipulative but aren't bad people OR write about a character(s) that manipulate others for their own agendas, whether good or bad.

 **Word Count:** 1110 per GoogleDocs

 **Betas:** Aya

 **AN:** Heads up, Blaise is kind of dark here. And I don't know if his mom is given a name in canon (and I was on the clock, so I didn't check), so I'm gonna call her Claudia. Also, this is very not canon, but let's just go with anyway, all right?

**Warnings for mentions of manipulation, death, and murder**

* * *

 **The Last Name on the List**

Blaise carefully corked the vial of glowing purple liquid and slipped out of his stepfather's bedroom. He mentally thanked his mother for not actually wanting to share a bedroom with this one, even if he was almost as rich as her. It made poisoning the glass of water he kept on the nightstand that much easier.

He quietly shut his own bedroom door and padded over to the wall beside his bed. Using a long, cryptic rhythm of wand taps, he revealed a safe, and, after cluing in his magical signature, he opened the door and took out his notes. Crossing the room, he sank into his desk chair.

"Husband Number Nine, check," he muttered, crossing the old man's name off the list.

Though he'd never admit it, Blaise loved the feeling he got when his plans came together perfectly. Sure, he felt a little bad about killing someone, but really it had to be done. And he hadn't had to kill them all.

Just for kicks, Blaise flipped back through his notes on his previous stepfathers.

* * *

Number One had been an accidental start of something beautiful. According to the notes Blaise had made from memory, the man hadn't been wealthy, but he had appealed to Mrs. Zabini's love for physical beauty. Yes, Rupert had been handsome, charming, and far too slick. He probably believed that Claudia was an easy mark. What the man _hadn't_ bargained for was the indomitable will of her three year old son.

Rupert had provided the perfect learning environment for Blaise. He quickly picked up on the fact that Rupert _hated_ his cries and whimpers, and he used those to his advantage to get toys and treats. If ever that didn't work, Rupert just disappeared for a few hours and returned after someone else had had time to deal with "the kid." Blaise thought this was a great game. But even though the man was easily manipulated by a toddler, Blaise thought that his mummy cared far too much for this new man in her life.

So he decided to stop responding to sweets and shushes. Blaise followed Rupert around every moment that he could, crying and whining and being as irritating as he could. Like clockwork the man would offer him a piece of candy and, when that didn't work, would disappear for a few hours. As soon as he returned, Blaise attached himself to Rupert's leg and began crying again. After two short months of non-stop aggravation, Rupert left the house in a fit of rage, never to return—he sent the divorce papers to Claudia by owl.

Claudia was quite sad for a while, and Blaise loved getting to crawl in his mummy's lap and be the center of attention. Everything was just how it was meant to be. Then his mummy brought home a new man.

* * *

Husbands Two and Three had both been money grubbers disguised as courtiers caught in a whirlwind romance. Blaise had quickly decided to dispatch both of them the same way he'd done with Rupert. They both went down fairly easily, running from the manor with their hands over their ears and their tails between their legs.

Husband Number Four, Baracus, was different. He never showed any sympathy for the crying, whimpering nine year old in front of him, and he never made any bones about it. He'd just throw a silencing charm at the boy and go on his merry way.

After six months of the Whiny Child tactic, Blaise finally snapped.

Baracus was standing on the balcony of his study after dinner, smoking a pipe and avoiding his new family, when Blaise finally found him. He ran up to the man and clung tightly to his leg.

Before Blaise could get a single tear out, Baracus growled, "For Merlin's sake, you stupid kid, just leave me alone." He Silenced Blaise and went back to smoking his pipe. "I swear, if it wasn't for your mother's money, I would just kill you."

Blaise felt anger mixed with something else welling up inside of him. No one talked to him like that!

As quickly as it had come, the something else left his body in a wave. Blaise watched as it shot out of him and smacked into Baracus, sending him tumbling over the railing.

Blaise watched the man cry for help and fumble for his wand as he fell. The five story fall was too short to give him time to defend himself, but it was certainly long enough to kill him.

House elves came running, and Claudia ran out to try to save her already dead husband. Blaise decided that he felt nothing but relief and a sense of accomplishment—he'd succeeded in getting rid of another husband, and it was quite efficient, too. Maybe there was something to this.

* * *

After the death of Baracus, Blaise decided to chronicle the manipulations of his stepfathers. He made notes on which tactics were most effective, where they liked to hide, and what it looked like when they were approaching a breaking point. It would help inform him of the best way to deal with future husbands—and knowing his mother, there would be more. With a sense of glee, he also recorded how his first bout of accidental magic killed the target who would not budge.

For all the difficulty he had caused, Baracus had opened Blaise's eyes to something far more important than attention—his mother's fortune. All these men stood to steal the Zabini fortune right out from under Blaise's nose, and that just wouldn't do. He simply would have to take care of anyone that came along. For good.

* * *

Looking back, it was possible that his mum had caught on to Blaise's schemes. Husbands Number Five through Eight were all incredibly similar to Baracus in their motives and attitudes, and so Blaise took them all down in a similar way—poisoned brandy, broken racing broom, tainted hair tonic. So easy to take down, so easy to keep out of the way of his own fortune.

Now that he was sixteen and almost of age, Blaise felt no remorse for killing Number Nine. Everything was finally taken care of. When he turned seventeen, he would finally be able to take over the family finances, and no one would be able to take them away from him—except his mother. Now that he thought about it, she did spend a lot of money, and supporting whatever husband she picked up next could possibly get quite expensive.

"Hmmm," Blaise hummed as he scratched his mother's name at the bottom of his list. "Perhaps there's one more thing to take care of after all…"


	17. Baby Steps

**Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition**

 **Wigtown Wanderers, Seeker**

 **Prompt:** The Yoruba Dance from Nigeria; write about a character who celebrates small moments in life

 **Word Count:** 1166 per GoogleDocs

* * *

Baby Steps

Luna levitated what felt like the millionth piece of splintered wood over to the growing pile of debris that had once been a greenhouse. Supposedly, Professor McGonagall was going to find a way to use the wreckage of the battle to memorialize those that had died. Luna was interested to see how that would actually work, but, if the mess in front of her was any indication, that day was a long way off.

Though it wasn't exactly backbreaking work, the tedium of rebuilding Hogwarts was starting to get to even Luna. Even the prospect of celebrating Taco Tuesday tonight was too far off to really bolster her spirits. But on the bright side, her pile of trash was officially big enough to warrant starting another one. It was a baby step, but that counted as progress!

She looked around to see if she could rope anyone else into joining her as she did her "new trash pile dance." Hermione had told her it looked like a wacky cross between "The Charleston" and "The Hokey Pokey," but that didn't matter to Luna. She just enjoyed the moment of letting loose. Neville was a great, quiet partner to work with, but he'd never join in her dance party. So for a few short moments, Luna twisted and kicked to a song only she could hear, relishing her small accomplishment.

As Luna finally turned to remove piece number one million and one, she heard a crash near the other end of the former greenhouse.

Neville, who had been working near one of the only glass panels to survive the final battle as well as the last two months, was holding his bleeding fist. His shoulders heaved as he sucked in deep, ragged breaths. Shards of glass glittered at his unsteady feet.

Madame Pomfrey had restricted him to the least strenuous work, but only because she couldn't use a Sticking Charm to pin him to a hospital bed. She'd given him clear orders to take it easy on his repeatedly damaged knee and fragile emotional state. He'd promised he would do as he'd been told, but now it seemed that Neville wasn't quite capable of that.

Taking a calming breath, Luna tiptoed around the mess to her friend. Biting off her admonition, Luna gently took his bloody hand and cast cleaning, antiseptic, and healing charms on it.

"What's got you so upset?" she asked. "I know we've been at this for days, but I think we're making good progress."

Neville looked at her incredulously. "That's just it!" he cried. "We've been doing this for days, and there's no end in sight! All I can see is destruction and chaos and death. It's like we aren't doing a damn bit of good! How is spending all day in the middle of it not getting to you?"

Luna held her tongue. It _was_ getting to her. The slow progress of rebuilding was so different from the quick missions under Death Eater occupation and the rapid spellfire of battle. The adjustment was difficult. How could you cope with having nothing to show for your efforts when, such a short time ago, that was your only source of hope? When action and results were the only things that could distract you from the pain and loss?

As her eyes scanned their surroundings, her brain searched for words that could bring her friend comfort. Instead, her gaze fell upon something hidden under a pile of glass and wood. She patted Neville's arm and carefully picked her way through the mess. With a little maneuvering, she managed to extricate the tiny potted plant.

She took Neville's undamaged hand in her own and closed his fingers around the impossibly pristine container.

Luna murmured, "It does get to me, Nev. But for all we lost, there's so much Voldemort couldn't take from us. We _are_ making a difference. There are still little things to find happiness in, small victories to celebrate even in the hard times. So that's what I'm going to do."

With a flick of her wrist, she transfigured a piece of splintered timber into an ornate plant stand. Allowing herself a small, proud smirk, Luna ceremoniously placed the pot on it and finished off the display with a banner that read "I Survived the Battle of Hogwarts."

Neville snorted. "Very nice. I still don't see what difference a single little plant makes."

"There's a living, thriving plant in here now, so I say we've officially started the rebuilding process for the greenhouses," she declared.

"That's one way of looking at it," Neville said, trying to suppress a grin.

In contrast, Luna let one stretch broadly across her face. "It's a step in the right direction. A baby step, but a step nonetheless."

Neville lost the battle as his smile broke through. "And how exactly are we going to celebrate this?" he asked.

Luna laughed—it was good to have a friend who knew her so well and appreciated her quirks. "I don't know yet! We'll have to discuss it with everyone over tacos tonight."

"I just don't get it," Neville said, marveling at her. "You've come here every day for the past two months and done the same thing over and over. Yet you still find little things to dance about or toast to or even just smile that secret little smile you think I don't see."

She could have told him about the way she had started each day with a silly dance as she had been recovering from the loss of her mother. She could have told him how she had bought a sugar quill every time one of her belongings had been unexpectedly returned to her dorm. She could have told him that it was a way of life, a consistent choice to find happiness in the small moments because the big ones weren't guaranteed.

Instead, she just patted his healed hand. "It's just something I learned to do. And practice makes perfect, you know."

Neville looked thoughtful for a moment and then shook his head. "Well, I'm glad you can do it. Maybe one of these days I'll pick up on it myself."

Luna shrugged. "You should really give it a try. I think it could honestly change your life."

They quietly went back to their work, slogging through scattered bits of wood and glass. Luna kept one eye on Neville's trash pile as it grew steadily higher. Finally, he could add no more to it. Neville's eyes sought hers out, hesitation written plainly on his face. Luna nodded, encouraging him to do what she hoped he was thinking.

Without any warning, Neville started alternately punching the air and twisting his hips.

When he was finished, she gave him a polite round of applause at which he blushed. Luna laughed again and mentally patted herself on the back. Given time, Neville might yet become a fellow celebrator of the small moments. For now, she was quite pleased with his baby steps.


	18. Constant Vigilance

**Author's Note:** Just a little something about how Mad-Eye got his famous injuries. There's a bit of foul language and mild gore here, so heads up on that. And… yeah, I think that will do it. Enjoy!

* * *

Constant Vigilance

Alastor sent a string of Stunners toward the pair of Death Eaters he was dueling and, after he saw them both fall, took a few seconds to check on his team. His Aurors were holding their own—for now. Even the most experienced team couldn't hold out forever while this outnumbered.

He needed to send another Patronus to the Ministry to drive home the severity of their situation. He turned just in time to miss the Cutting Curse aimed at his head. Well, _mostly_ miss.

Blood dripped from what had been the end of his nose as Alastor whipped back around to see the unmasked, smirking face of Evan Rosier.

"Careful there, Alastor," the man taunted as he cast an Exploding Curse that bounced off Alastor's shield. "You need to be more mindful of your back."

With an audible growl, Alastor shot off a few spells that may or may not have been Ministry approved for this kind of situation. Rosier grimaced as he narrowly avoided the nasty looking lights. The two exchanged rapid spellfire for several long minutes, each too engrossed in trying to one up their opponent to consider any more trash talking.

Alastor's team was rapidly losing ground the longer the fight went on. He was truly beginning to worry when, mercifully, he heard the telltale popping of his backup arriving.

Recognizing his window for escape was closing, Rosier smirked at Alastor and tweaked his own nose. He shouted, "Remember Moody: constant vigilance!" before Disapparating into the night.

Alastor rolled his eyes and, ignoring his own wound, moved to check on his injured Aurors.

When he finally had a chance to assess the damage to his nose, Alastor decided he wouldn't heal it magically. It was a damn miracle he'd turned just in time to avoid the Cutting Curse. The ancient Auror who taught every class of recruits had terrified them with stories to reinforce that being distracted in the field got you killed. From now on, every time Alastor looked in the mirror, he would get a glaring reminder of just how close he'd come to being one of those stories.

Besides, it helped give his round, ruddy face a bit of a rakish air. That was his story, and he was sticking to it.

* * *

"You know what to do! Get the bastards!" Moody bellowed, spurring his team on. He watched them take off after the Death Eaters but stayed behind to keep rear watch.

Moody followed his team around another corner in Knockturn Alley and, with reflexes that had been honed in the heat of battle, immediately ducked a pair of Killing Curses. Funny how poorly people reacted when they recognize they've been trapped. The Death Eaters must have realized they'd been herded toward another team of Aurors and were now out for blood. The wall above Moody exploded under the force of Dark Magic, knocking him to the ground and sending his wand flying. For one long, terrifying moment, he scanned the debris in search of it. Finally, he found his wand in the middle of the lane, unscathed.

With one eye on the action, Moody bent to scoop it up. Before he could reach it, a stray spell hit the cobblestones in front of him, sending shards of stone rocketing into his face.

" _Fuck_!" he screamed, clutching at the searing pain in his eye. Internally, he cursed himself for not being more vigilant of the battle raging around him. When he withdrew his hand from his eye and looked down at it, his stomach churned. He needed to get to St. Mungo's. If he got immediate medical attention, the Healers could probably save—

A silvery mole floated over to where he lay and opened its mouth. "Moody!" the voice of one of his Aurors cried. "The back side is falling! We need help _now_!"

Without another thought, Moody conjured an eye patch and rushed into the fray.

* * *

The newly minted "Mad-Eye" landed in the Meadowes' back garden under a Disillusionment Charm, his magical eye whirling uncontrollably. He smacked his temple sharply, and the eye turned to face forward with the rest of his body. No one else had yet responded to Dorcas' mayday Patronus, so for the moment, he had to sit back and assess the situation.

Through the walls, Mad-Eye could see a half dozen bodies scattered throughout the house. The only ones left standing seemed to be a pair of figures in robes with pointed hoods—clearly inner-circle Death Eaters—and one other cloaked figure he didn't quite recognize. Probably a new recruit they wanted to initiate to their brand of violence.

Mad-Eye shot off a quick Patronus to Albus. He hoped the old man would send others to back him up, but he was pretty positive there was nothing anyone could do for the Meadowes family anymore.

He watched the figures move swiftly down the stairs and then blow through the back door. The two Death Eaters Apparated away too quickly for Mad-Eye to do anything, but the last figure stood and admired the scene of their depravity for one final moment. With a flick of his wand, Mad-Eye sent the nastiest hex he could think of toward the figure.

Time seemed to stand still as the figure spun around and batted the spell away with ease. As they did, the hood of their cloak slipped down. Mad-Eye's blood ran cold.

"Insolent fool," Voldemort hissed, "how _dare_ you raise your wand against the most powerful wizard in millennia!" He raised his own wand, ready to strike.

Mad-Eye considered himself brave, but he wasn't stupid. He dove away from Voldemort, fumbling for the emergency Portkey in his coat pocket. As he rolled, he heard the dark lord's sibilant voice shouting in a language he couldn't understand, but he wasn't interested in sticking around to find out more.

Coming to his feet with the Portkey in hand, Mad-Eye opened his mouth to say the activation phrase. Instead, he screamed in pain.

Through watering eyes, Mad-Eye saw a black snake with burning red eyes sinking its fangs into his calf. He could feel the venom sinking into his muscle and coursing through his veins. For an eternal second, there was no Voldemort, no Meadowes house, no Mad-Eye. There was only pain.

With the last of his energy, Mad-Eye hit the creature with a Cutting Curse and managed to whisper the Portkey's activation phrase. Then everything went black.

* * *

Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, holder of the record for most Death Eaters captured and undisputedly the fiercest Auror in Britain, cursed under his breath. Another damn papercut.

He took a swig from the flask of pain potion he'd taken to keeping on his hip after losing his lower leg to that cursed snake bite. Healers said the pain was psychosomatic. All he knew was that it hurt like hell.

After his encounter with Voldemort, the DMLE had decided he would be more of a liability than an asset in the field and proceeded to chain him to a desk.

Sure, he was allowed to investigate, and he'd even helped arrest Sirius Black after his betrayal of the Potters. But he'd missed the _real_ end of the war! When he was younger, he'd been so sure he would go out in a blaze of glory someday. Instead, here he was, pushing papers and dying a slow death by bureaucracy. If he was being honest with himself, the blow to his pride was far more painful than the phantom aches in his leg.

A knock at his door brought him out of his wallowing.

"Come in," he grunted, raking a hand across his desk and shoving piles of parchment to the floor.

Amelia Bones, the department's deputy head, entered. She raised a delicate eyebrow at the mess and gingerly sat in a chair reserved for the few brave souls who dared visit Alastor Moody these days.

"Sir," she murmured, nodding deferentially. "How have you been for the last few months? You know, since...?"

"Since a damn snake ended my career?" He snorted. "Counting the days to retirement."

Amelia sat up straight. "Actually, that's what I'm here to talk to you about, sir. I'm sure you heard Mordecai Figg was killed last week."

Of course he'd heard. The old man had trained every class of Auror recruits for the past two decades. It had hurt like hell to find out his old friend and mentor had been cut down by some of the last remaining Death Eaters while shopping in Diagon Alley with his family. Not that he'd ever say that aloud.

"Yep. Get on with it Amelia."

She glared at him before continuing. "Minister Bagnold would like you to take his place. That is, if you're up to it."

He sat back and stroked his chin. It would mean a promotion to Senior Auror. It would give him a chance to get back in the fight a bit. Most importantly, it would mean less paperwork.

Shoving down a grin, Senior Auror Moody grunted, "Fine. But I get to write the new curriculum."

* * *

Senior Auror Moody stared at the line of new recruits in front of him. His first class. The first group of minds he would get to mold. The first bunch of dumb kids he would be responsible for training to survive. He began to pace in front of his students, the rhythmic thud of his peg leg lulling them into a false sense of security.

"The first lesson you need to learn to stay alive," Moody said as he whipped out his wand and Stunned a recruit at random, "is _constant vigilance."_

* * *

 **Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition**

 **Seeker, Wigtown Wanderers**

 **Prompt:** Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes: Write about someone getting injured

 **Word Count:** 1604

 **MC4A Challenge Block**

 **Stacked with:** ToS; Star; SF; SoW; ER; Remains of War

 **Individual Challenges:** Short Jog; Interesting Times; Old Shoes Themes & Things A—Reflection; Themes & Things B—Survival

Representations:

 **Bonus Challenges:** Second Verse (Middle Name; Spinning Plates; Unwanted Advice); Chorus (Odd Feathers; Pear Shaped; Wabi Sabi; Bee Haven; Tomorrow's Shade; A Long Dog; Larger Than Life)

 **Tertiary Bonus Challenges:** O3 (Orator; Olivine); T3 (Thimble)

 **Warning:** language and mild gore


	19. The Perfect Life

**Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition**

 **Seeker, Wigtown Wanderers**

 **Prompt:** Queen of Pentacles — Upright: Practicality, Creature Comforts, Financial Security

 **Word Count:** 1685

 **Author's Note:** I gave Luna a middle name that my friends and I headcanon as her mother's first name. I borrowed name of the Lovegood house from a thousand other stories. I didn't kill Colin Creevey (I'm still upset over that one, JKR). This is not even remotely canon compliant because that's just the way I like my fanfiction. Here's hoping you'll like this little slice of alternate reality too!

* * *

The Perfect Life

Neville slammed the shop door behind him and threw his weight into it. A dozen hands on the other side knocked and pushed and tried to get in to see The-Boy-With-The-Sword. Just as it felt like the ancient wood would give way, a beam of light shot out and sealed the door shut.

"More trouble with your adoring fans, Mr. Longbottom?"

He looked up at the graying wizard who owned the apothecary and sighed. "Sorry for the fuss, Angus. I won't be back in Diagon Alley anytime soon, so hopefully this will be the last time I need to hide in here."

Angus gave him a pitying smile. "S'alright, son. You know where the Floo is."

Neville slunk into the storage room. Ever since Colin Creevey had released that damn picture, everyone knew his name, wanted his autograph, hell, even tried to slip him love potions—in other words, it made his life a living hell.

Colin had caught a lot of incredible moments from the final battle that wound up on the front page of The Daily Prophet. On May 3rd, when all the world was waking up to the news that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was really and truly dead, Colin had sold The Prophet their cover shot, a magnificent picture Harry just as he defeated Voldemort. Naturally, it was already the all-time best selling edition of the newspaper.

Harry must have been a bit upset by all the attention he was getting, which didn't surprise Neville at all, because the big story on May 4th was about the unsung heroes of the war—Ginny, Luna, Auror Shacklebolt, Arthur Weasley, Professor Lupin, even the people responsible for fearlessly broadcasting the news on the wireless. But almost all of it fell away in the face of _the picture_.

Granted, it was an incredible picture. It perfectly captured Neville, bloodied yet triumphant, swinging the Sword of Gryffindor and decapitating Voldemort's snake with a yell that you could practically hear coming off the page. It had completely turned Neville Longbottom's world upside down.

His was now a household name. Even a month after the photo was published, he could barely come to Diagon Alley to purchase new seeds or supplies for his final year at Hogwarts without being mobbed by grateful witches and wizards. He couldn't stand it.

Neville grabbed a handful of Floo powder and took a deep breath. He didn't want to go home and face his preening Gran and the flock of old ladies she had over for tea. They were probably waiting for him to return so they could ooh and ahh and thank him for what he'd done. It was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now. Well, at least there was somewhere he knew he could escape all the hullabaloo.

He stepped into the grate, threw down the greenish powder, and called, "The Rookery!"

A few seconds later, Neville tumbled out onto the garish rug in the Lovegood's front hall. He stood and brushed the soot off his clothing, listening intently for any sign that someone was home. He didn't want to just stay there uninvited if no one was around, but he really didn't want to go back to Longbottom Manor either.

Before he could call out or send a Patronus, Winky popped to his side. "Mister Longybottoms is looking for Miss Luna, yes?"

He smiled down at the little elf who'd taken quite a shine to Luna during their year under the Carrows. "Hello, Winky. Is she here?"

"Miss Luna be down by the creek," Winky replied, nodding. "You go see her?"

"That's the plan!"

Without another thought, Neville wound his through the now familiar house, heading out the back door and down the path to the creek. He found Luna lying under her usual willow tree, staring through the thin branches at the clouds overhead. He quietly laid down next to her.

After a few long minutes, he broke the silence. "Aren't you going to ask what I'm doing here?"

"No," she murmured. "I knew you were headed out this afternoon to get your supplies for next year, and I knew you wouldn't want to deal with the crowds of people tugging at your sleeves. It's also Tuesday, so your Gran has all her 'swooning old biddies', as I believe you called them, over for tea. So I knew you'd be here eventually."

Neville chuckled. "Merlin, I love that about you."

He couldn't see her smile, but he could certainly hear it when she said, "My ability to reason?"

"That you know me so well."

Her hand sought his out and gave it a gentle squeeze.

They stayed just like that, soaking up the comfort and stillness only found in each other, until the sun finally began to set.

Neville stood and helped Luna to her feet and they walked hand in hand back toward The Rookery. When he tried to go inside, Luna stalled him in the garden.

"Let's stay outside just a bit longer," she suggested. "I'm not quite ready to let you go yet." She tugged him over to a set of patio furniture whose swirling cast iron and florid cushions made his eyes water.

He plopped down in one of the chairs and pulled her into his lap. "What's on your mind?"

She ran her hand through his hair and hummed noncommittally. "You need a haircut."

"And now you're avoiding the subject."

"I'm just concerned," she half-whispered. "The effects of Colin's picture have lasted quite a bit longer than I think either of us anticipated, and I know it's bothering you."

Neville nodded. "I really hadn't expected it to last more than a week or two, but it's been three months with no sign of slowing down."

"Do you think it will ever stop?"

"It's got to," he groaned. "I don't want to be like Harry, cooped up in my house unless I can round up a half dozen friends to go somewhere with me to protect me from the masses. That's not the kind of life I want."

Luna snuggled into his shoulder. "What kind of life _do_ you want, Nev?"

It was a blatant attempt at distracting him, but one look at her face told him she was also genuinely interested in his answer. He'd allow it.

"I want a quiet life. I want to have all the things I need and all the people I love. I want to complete my Herbology mastery and teach at Hogwarts, which is completely reasonable because Professor Sprout practically told me she was waiting for _me_ to finish before she retires. I want to have a good, steady job so that I'm financially stable—not so much money that it's ridiculous, but enough to have a nice home and the occasional holiday. I want practical things. That doesn't sound exciting, but it would be perfect to me."

"I see," Luna said softly. There was no mistaking the insecurity and doubt in her eyes.

Neville shook his head and reached up to cradle her face in his hands. "I also want my little creature comforts. I want a house out in the countryside where I can have a greenhouse and you can have a big library dedicated to whatever you want—creature searches, historical research, spell development, anything. I want to buy you all the little things your heart desires, like books and crazy socks and funny earrings. I want to wake up to you every morning and fall asleep with you every night. More than anything, I want you, sweetheart. Life could never be perfect without you."

Luna leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "I love you too, darling."

* * *

 _Three and a Half Years Later_

Neville opened the door, kicked off his boots, and dropped his bag on the floor of his house outside Salisbury. Professor Sprout had really enjoyed watching him slave away over his projects this week, and he was looking forward to relaxing with his girlfriend.

"Lu, I'm home!"

His voice echoed through the house, unanswered. With a knowing smile, he headed up to the library.

He found Luna poring over a half-dozen maps and at least as many books. Her wand was tucked behind her ear, and she was shifting her weight back and forth in a little cha-chaing motion. The loud, mismatched socks she favored were the icing on the cake.

"Getting ready for your trip with Katie?" he asked, shattering the silence.

Luna looked over at him and smiled wearily. "I think she's hoping we can add this trip to the book, but we'd have to push it up a bit to meet the deadline."

"Will the Umgubular Slashkilters have finished migrating to the Alps yet?"

"We think so," she said, chewing her lip, "but I suppose there's no way of knowing until we get there."

Neville walked over and wrapped her in a warm, steady hug. "Either way, I believe in you."

She gave him a little push down into her desk chair and promptly sat on his lap. "Enough about this. I know you were trying to finish up your project this week on top of teaching the first years. How'd that go?"

"You'll be happy to hear I got the last bit of it done this afternoon before I left. And the Firsties have been surprisingly great."

"Really?"

"Really." He paused and gave her a small smile. "You know, not a single one has asked about the picture or the war or anything like that."

Luna considered him thoughtfully. "It took a full two hours before someone asked for your autograph in Diagon Alley last month. Maybe it's all dying down—wouldn't that be just lovely?"

"It would make my life pretty damn perfect," he replied. "But there's just one thing I would change."

He unceremoniously lifted her from his lap, stood up, and placed her back in the chair before rushing out of the room. He came back a few seconds later and got down on one knee.

"Luna Dionne Lovegood," he said, holding out a small sapphire and diamond ring. "Will you marry me?"


	20. Dawn

Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition

Seeker, Wigtown Wanderers

Prompt: "The Show Must Go On" by Queen — "Outside the dawn is breaking."

Word Count: 1024

* * *

Outside the dawn is breaking.

A few small birds sing their morning songs. He can hear a light breeze rustling through the trees in the back garden, and he knows that soon his mother will be awake. He'll listen as she has her morning cup of tea and bustles around the kitchen, making breakfast for the rest of the family. When she's finished, she'll set the dishes to washing and call her brood to the table.

He doesn't answer her call. He hasn't since he lost the other half of himself.

George tries to summon the energy, the will to get out of bed and go downstairs. It's been almost a week, and he knows he can't go on like this—he knows Fred wouldn't have wanted him to stop living at all. But that thought sends another fierce punch of grief to his gut, and George curls tighter into himself. Fred is everywhere in this room, everywhere in this house, everywhere inside of George, and for not the first time he wishes he could escape his brother's memory, if only for a few moments. And he feels guilty for wishing it.

Angie is coming to visit tomorrow. She'll probably come up to his room and try to coax him back into the land of the living. She'll try to get him out of bed. She'll try to make him eat. She'll try to make him try.

George squeezes his eyes against the forming tears. Maybe it will work. Maybe he'll try living again tomorrow. He hopes that he won't and he hopes that he will. Either way, it will hurt.

* * *

The midday sun burns through the open window.

He's finally made it downstairs. It took a month—a whole month without his brother—but he did it. His mother pushes him to go outside, to take advantage of its warmth and healing properties, but he always pretends not to hear. All he wants to do is sit by this window.

The entire Weasley clan is outside, having a picnic and soaking up the last few golden days of summer. He feels the late summer breeze on his face, and he wants to smile. He's sure the bright sun could burn away some of his grief, just like it was for his family right now, if only he'd allow it.

From where he sits, George can see the makeshift Quidditch pitch where they spent so many hours learning and practicing and spending time together. He can see the pond where they learned to swim the summer they were six. There's the tree he broke his arm falling out of when he was ten. Fred had made him laugh through the pain by offering to do the same so no would be able to tell them apart. It was their shtick, he'd said, and he was fully committed to it. Unfortunately their mum had overheard, and then they'd both been in trouble—him for climbing a tree, Fred for such a dumb idea.

The memory makes George laugh. When he realizes what he's doing, he stops and puts a hand to his lips. He hasn't ever laughed without him.

Perhaps, he thinks, he still hasn't.

* * *

Dusk has fallen around the Burrow.

He had a good day in the garden, clearing the rust-colored leaves and making sure all the gnomes were flung over the stone wall. Lee came over to talk about the shop and the possibility of creating a new line of fireworks for those more sensitive to intense lights and sounds. He doesn't have to say it aloud—George knows they're for people who still have flashbacks from the war. People like him.

George knows he's lucky to have such a good friend and now business partner. Few other people would have been willing to step up and run a business while its owner grieved. But then Lee Jordan wasn't most people.

He's been back to the shop a few times. Everytime he turned the corner to a new aisle, he'd expected to see his brother looking back at him. With every strange noise coming from the back room, he'd expected to hear Fred's voice calling out to let him know everything was alright. But none of it would ever happen again.

Somehow he is learning to live with it.

* * *

Midnight is quiet, but he doesn't mind the quiet anymore. Mostly.

It was one of the hardest parts of adjusting to being without his brother. Together they had been so boisterous, so full of joie de vivre and pranks and the sheer force of life. And then his life had suddenly gone silent. Their constant connection, the "freaky twin thing", as Ginny called it, no longer ran through his mind in a constant comforting hum. For the first time in his life, George was completely alone with his thoughts. And in the quiet of his own mind, he couldn't escape the resounding, ceaseless chant of _Fred, Fred, Fred_.

Until he could.

It's late fall now, and somewhere along the way George has gotten used to the silence. He loves the small moments late at night when he's the only one awake for what feels like miles. He can make a cup of tea and sit on the back porch and just enjoy feeling the world around him. George has learned to love the solitude. He's alone with his thoughts, but he's come to understand that doesn't mean he's completely alone.

Sometimes, when he tiptoes down the stairs, he finds his father in the kitchen. Sometimes his father finds him. It doesn't matter either way. They smile at each other and pass the pot of tea back and forth, never saying a word. There's a solidarity in knowing that they don't have to speak to acknowledge that the memory of Fred is keeping them both awake.

He was used to living in a world where noise was a given, a constant, a comfort.

Maybe the silence has its comforts too.

* * *

Outside the dawn is breaking. It's a new day, and there is no Fred in it. But George finally thinks it could be a good one just the same.


	21. In Living Color

Written for QLFC

Wigtown Wanderers, Seeker

Prompt: Save a Character-Colin Creevey

WC: 1322

* * *

In Living Color

Colin cursed his shaky hands as he tried in vain to get a photo—just one photo—of the castle that wouldn't turn out a blurry mess.

Giving up for the moment, he put his camera back into his bag and pulled out a jar of salve. The Healers at St. Mungo's had told him the noxious paste would cure the curse wound on his shoulder, but in the month following the final battle, it hadn't done anything more than dull the worst of the pain. The damn pain that made his shoulders, arms, and hands shake so much that he couldn't get a single decent picture. The more time that passed, the more sure he was that his career in photography had ended before it could begin.

For a split second, Colin felt the urge to toss his camera into the Black Lake and give up photography forever.

"It's amazing how whole it still looks from this angle."

Colin turned to find the source of the voice.

"The view from here is deceiving," Harry said softly. "If I didn't know better, I'd think the professors were up there in their offices, enjoying the first few weeks without students hanging around the castle. Dumbledore would be sneaking around and playing little pranks on them like he used to. Even Filch would be in a decent mood because there was no one around to make a mess. But I do know better."

With a sigh, Colin sat next down on large flat rock, shoulder to shoulder with his old hero. Before the war, he would have been drooling at the idea of being so close to Harry, let alone having the chance at a private conversation with him. But now… It was hard to get too excited about anything.

"Everything is different."

Harry nodded toward Colin's camera bag. "Looks like not _everything_."

Colin snorted. "I haven't taken a single picture worth anything since I took that curse for Dennis. Lot of good that did him in the end, too."

"I'm sorry about your brother," Harry murmured.

"You of all people shouldn't be sorry," Colin whispered. "I just… This is going to sound absurd, but I wish I'd taken more pictures of him. More pictures _with_ him."

Harry raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"He and I were always taking pictures of everyone and everything else. I alway thought there would be more time to take pictures with him," Colin explained. "But now…"

"But now you can't," Harry finished softly.

"Exactly."

Harry looked back out over the Black Lake, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, and Colin was unexpectedly glad for the silence.

"I figure you're not alone in that regret," Harry finally said. "I know there aren't a lot of pictures of people who didn't survive the first war. I don't have a lot of pictures of my parents, and Ron's got very few of his mother's brothers. It's like they all assumed they would have the time to do it after the war was won."

Colin shook his head. "Not surprising. We all think we've got the time until we don't."

Harry nodded and then got to his feet. "I've got some errands to run, Colin, but I think I've got something I'd like your input on. Would you be free to meet me for dinner tomorrow night? Say the Hog's Head at seven?"

"That would be great, Harry," he replied, shaking the other man's hand.

And just like that, Colin was alone again with his camera and his regrets.

* * *

Colin walked into the Hog's Head at seven o'clock sharp and quickly scanned the small back booths for his friend. Instead, he saw Hermione Granger ensconced in a whirlwind of books, parchment, and quills scattered across the pub's largest table.

He walked over and tapped her carefully on the shoulder. "Hermione? Have you seen Harry? I was supposed to meet him here."

She held up her left hand for a moment as she finished scribbling down a long sentence. When she was finished, she looked up and smiled at him. "Harry just went to fetch a couple of other people. He should be here in a moment. Have a seat."

Colin gingerly sat down across from her, careful not to disturb Hermione Granger's organized chaos. He fiddled with the buttons on his shirt as she immediately became engrossed with her research again, and he thought for a moment about just sneaking out. He'd likely only been invited because Harry felt bad for him. He had Hermione and Ron and a hundred other smarter, more helpful people at his disposal. What could Harry really need him for anyway?

Before he could act, Harry burst through the door. Behind him trailed Luna Lovegood, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Flitwick, who was levitating a large stone basin.

"What's that?" Colin blurted out as the stone bowl gently came to rest on the table.

"It's a pensieve, Mister Creevey," Flitwick said. "It's used to view memories."

"But how—"

"All in good time, Mister Creevey," said McGonagall, an uncharacteristic twinkle in her eye. "Perhaps its presence would be best explained if Mister Potter could finally tell us why he's gathered us here?"

"Of course," Harry said. "You see, I ran across Colin earlier, and we got to talking about how there aren't a lot of pictures of people we miss. I wondered if anyone had ever tried to create a photo from a memory. That's what Hermione's been looking into."

Hermione looked up from her notes. "I haven't found anything yet, though that's not surprising. Once wizards figure out a way of doing something, they rarely seek out another method."

"So you want us to try to do something that's never been done before?" Flitwick asked slowly.

Luna beamed. "That sounds like fun."

"I thought we could use this as a planning meeting," Harry explained. "Just to get everyone on the same page. Professor McGonagall, I had hoped you and Professor Flitwick could explain for us how exactly a pensieve works. Colin, I was hoping you could walk us through the inner workings of a magical camera and then maybe the photo development process too?"

"That would allow us to see if there's any overlap in the magic. It could be a good starting point for the process," Hermione added.

"Of course," Colin said, stunned that he'd been included in this meeting of the minds. Maybe his photography career wasn't over after all.

"Shall we get started?"

* * *

 _One Year Later_

Colin brought his favorite memory of Dennis to the front of his mind as he touched his wand to his forehead. The silvery strand stuck to the tip, and he carefully dropped it into the pensieve full of modified Photo Development Potion. It was an odd sensation, but Colin had come to enjoy it—or, rather, what it meant.

He looked around his studio and smiled.

Photos of people long dead smiled back at him from every corner. Amelia Bones, Dorcas Meadowes, Regulus Black, Lavender Brown, James and Lily Potter, and hundreds of others were hanging there, ready to be included in the memorial edition of _Hogwarts: A History_ being published in a few months. Dennis was the last photo Colin needed to be done with his portion of the process.

After a few long minutes, Colin pulled the newly developed photo from the pensieve. Dennis smiled and waved back at him, his chest puffed out with pride. It was as though he _knew_ what Colin and his friends had done. They'd brought the memories of so many people back to life. They'd given people the ability to honor their loved ones, even if no physical evidence of them remained. They'd done what no one had ever done before.

Colin hung the picture up to dry and smiled back at it. He knew Dennis' death hadn't been in vain. No one's had. The proof was in front of him, in living color.


	22. Innuendo and Outuendo

Written for QLFC, Quarterfinals

Seeker, Wigtown Wanderers

Prompt: "Innuendo and Outuendo" — title of first Wanderer's story posted this season

Word Count: 1018

AN: Due to the prompt/title restrictions, there's way more innuendo than I would usually write. Don't hate me for it? Also, just a heads up, there's a non-graphic scene where Lily is in labor, because nothing is sacred to Sirius Black.

* * *

Innuendo and Outuendo

"And you're sure my tie looks alright?" James reached up and fiddled with the collar of his shirt for the forty-third time. He knew because Sirius, the prick that he was, had been counting them aloud.

"It's fine, Prongs," Sirius said. "Would you just relax? Evans has already agreed to go on a date with you. She's not going to back out even if your shirt is a bit wonky." He flopped back against his bed and resumed tossing his apple high into the air and catching it, doing his best to hide a grin.

"But you said I looked fine!" James cried, twisting in the mirror as he tried to find the imperfection. "I need everything about today to be perfect."

"Like I haven't heard that before," Sirius muttered under his breath.

James whirled around. "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means you're always concerned about whether or not Evans thinks everything about you, from your hair to your shoelaces, is above reproach."

"That's not true!" James sniffed. "And even if it was, I don't see how trying to impress someone is such a bad thing."

Half of Sirius' mouth hitched up in a knowing smirk. "Your neurotic need to make every little detail perfect gives the impression that you're overcompensating for something a bit more important. And since I've seen the _bits_ that you're likely so concerned about, I can assure that you can stop worrying."

A flush crept from James' cheeks to the tips of his ears and the top of his collar. "If you can't say something helpful, get out."

"I thought that was helpful!" Sirius cried, his smirk now a full on grin. "But just know I look forward to discussing Evans' opinion on that matter very, very soon."

"That's it!" James muttered, pointing to the door. "Get. Out."

* * *

"Where's the ring? I just had it!" James cried, patting his pockets frantically. "I can't bloody well propose without a ring!"

"You put it in your coat pocket so you wouldn't forget it," Peter replied around bites of his muffin.

James' shoulders stooped in relief. "Thank Merlin. I hid it in the cookie jar last week so that Lily wouldn't find it, and then I lost it for several days because I'd forgotten where I put it."

"Very nice, Prongs," Remus said with a snort.

James threw his head back haughtily. "It was a reasonable thing to do it at the time."

"Yeah, until Evans goes for a snickerdoodle and winds up with an even bigger prize," Sirius chuckled.

"Do you need to run through it one more time?" Peter asked.

James shook his head and said, "No, I—"

"I think we could all do it by now," Sirius said with a laugh. "Take her to Hyde Park, get down on one knee, blah blah blah, speeches and tears, smoochy smoochy, ice cream from her favorite stand to celebrate—"

"And none of you will be here when we come back," James finished, fixing them with a look.

Sirius shot him a mischievous grin. "That way you can get started on the _real_ celebration, am I right?"

"I'm not dealing with this." James sighed and pointed to the door. "All of you, now. Get out."

* * *

"It's almost time," Remus said as James struggled with his hair in the mirror.

"I _know_ it's almost time, Moony, but I don't want to look like some kind of bum on my wedding day," he said in a panicked voice. "I thought I had it taken care of, but do you see this?"

As soon as James pulled the brush from his hair, it bounced back to its regular disheveled appearance.

"No amount of Sleekeazy's is going to fix this now," he groaned.

Remus rolled his eyes. "Lily won't think anything less of you if your hair is its normal, wild self. She loves you and wants to marry you in spite of it." He tacked on under his breath, "Though I don't always understand why."

"I think she loves him _because_ of it. Makes her feel all wild and uninhibited," Sirius said with an eyebrow waggle. "Leave it like it is! Might make for an even more memorable wedding night, if you know what I'm saying."

"Everyone knows what you're saying, Pads," Remus said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I don't care if you're the best man," James snapped, pointing at the door. "Go check on the girls or something. Just get out!"

* * *

It wasn't a wizarding tradition to have any men, other than a Healer, in the delivery room. However, Lily Evans Potter had never been too keen on keeping tradition for tradition's sake.

"You are so damn incredible," James whispered, squeezing her hand gently. "I love you so much."

Lily grimaced as another contraction hit. "Love. You. Too," she grunted, punctuating every word with a drop of her head to the bed frame.

On the other side of her bed, Sirius did his best to keep his snickering to himself.

"Are you ready, baby?" James asked now as he pushed the hair back from Lily's sweaty forehead.

"God, I'm so ready," she moaned. "Jaaaaaaames!"

At that, Sirius sputtered a laugh and tried to cover it with a cough. The glare James threw his way meant he was less than successful, which only made it more difficult to stop.

"Oh. Oh. _Oh_. _Ohhhhhhh_!" Lily cried, her eyes blared wide. "Dear God. Oh Merlin. Sweet— _shit_!"

Sirius let out a guffaw and began laughing openly. The more James tried to glare him into submission, the harder Sirius laughed, until tears were rolling down his face and he was clutching his own stomach in pain.

"What the hell, Padfoot?" James growled. "You promised you would try to be helpful, or at least try to behave. In case you've forgotten, we're trying to have a baby here!"

"Sounds more like—" Sirius hiccupped—"sounds more like you're trying to make one!"

A beat of silence passed. Then, as Lily began laughing through the pain of her contractions, James pointed at the door and screeched, " _Get_ _out!_ "


	23. Ghosts of Halloween

**Written for QLFC, Semifinals**

 **Seeker, Wigtown Wanderers**

 **Prompt:** Les Miserables: A character leaves their past behind and seeks to be a better person

 **Word Count:** 2885

 **Author's Note:** Y'all, I love spooky season as much as the next person, but I'm getting really excited for Christmas, too! In that vein, I hope you're familiar with A Christmas Carol, because Snape is about to get Scrooged. Well, kind of. Because other holidays don't really share a lot with the whole "Christmas spirit" thing, you know? But I loved the concept. I took a little liberty with Snape's history, the concept of the Fates, and Hogwarts' class schedules, but you know — artistic license! Anyway, I'm going to shut up now. Enjoy, and Happy Halloween!

* * *

 _Halloween, 1991_

Severus Snape sank into his favorite chair by the fire and swirled the brandy in his glass. The clock on the mantel read half-past eleven, but it felt much later to him. He hated Halloween, and this night had been a dreadfully long one. The troll had been a surprise, and Quirinus would demand more careful observation from now on, that much was certain. But that wasn't what was keeping Severus awake despite the fatigue thudding through his body.

He should have known that Potter brat would manage to worm himself into the middle of everything. The boy always needed to be in the spotlight, always wanted the attention and glory. Spoiled and arrogant, just like his father!

"I'll show him," Severus slurred under his breath before taking another large sip. "Him and the rest of these children. Think they're so high and mighty, they don't know anything. Great bunch of…"

The glass slipped from his grip and clattered to the floor, the remaining alcohol seeping into the stone as Severus Snape fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

"Severus. _Severus_."

He knew that voice.

He opened his eyes and blinked several times, sure that he couldn't really be here.

Eileen Snape stood at the foot of his childhood bed and looked down at where he lay. "Glad to see you're finally awake, you great lay-about."

She looked the same as his last memory of her, standing in the door in Spinner's End as he left for his seventh year. Her dark hair was streaked with silver, and worry lines creased her forehead as well as the corners of her eyes. It all seemed so impossible.

"What am I doing here?" he muttered to no one in particular.

"It seems you've been a wretched boy, my dear," Eileen answered. "The Fates have seen the things you've done, the things you're doing, and that which you have yet to do, and they've decided that you need a bit of an… let's call it an attitude adjustment, shall we?"

Severus sat straight up and said indignantly, "Ridiculous! I'm a grown man, and I'm entitled to my own free will. I don't need to change my attitude about anything when it's these cretins around me that are intolerable. Besides, there is no such being as the Fates. Yet another useless, stupid concept that sham of a subjuect, Divination."

"I wouldn't disparage the Fates like that," Eileen said darkly. "And it's nothing too unreasonable, just a visit from some old friends and a few trips down memory lane. When you wake up, no one else will be the wiser."

"I simply won't do it!" he replied in a haughty tone.

Eileen's lip curled back in a smirk. "I suppose we'll see about that, won't we son?"

* * *

Severus jerked back to wakefulness and nearly fell out of his chair in doing so. After a few seconds, he processed the scene before him—spilled drink, dying fire, crick in his neck.

"Idiotic, falling asleep in a chair like a first year," he grumbled as he cleaned the mess and stoked the fire with a few flicks of his wand. "Explains the strange dream, I suppose."

He blearily stumbled his way back to his room and climbed straight into bed, hoping to put the miserable day and that nonsensical vision of his mother behind him.

* * *

Severus knew he was dreaming. Well, more like nightmaring. Today had marked ten years since he'd been back to Godric's Hollow, but somehow he now stood in the front garden of the Potters' still-smoking cottage, feeling as though he was waiting for… something. The smell of motorcycle exhaust lingered in the air. Black and Hagrid must have just left, so if the real timeline of that night held—

Severus flinched at the sudden noise of his younger self Apparating onto the front walk. The younger man dashed toward the cottage and burst through the door without a backward glance. Severus followed quickly behind, catching up in time to see his younger self step over James' broken body, just as he remembered. And then the figure unexpectedly froze at the bottom of the stairs.

"I honestly can't believe you just walked over another person like that, even if it was James."

Severus whipped around to find the source of the voice. " _Lily_."

His heart thudded in his chest, even though he knew she wasn't real. Her long red hair streamed behind her in the chill breeze coming through the door—how had he forgotten how cold that night had been? Her green eyes, staring out of a now eternally unlined face, still pierced through to his very soul. She was just as beautiful as he remembered, yet something was… off. It took a moment for him to realize that he could actually see through her pale skin.

"Lily, wh—what's going on? Why do you look so—so—ghostly?

She pinned him with a hard look. "Because that's what I am, at least for tonight."

"But that's not pos—"

"As your mother explained, the Fates have deemed it necessary and made it possible. I'm the Ghost of your Halloweens Past, of the selfishness of your youth. Your decision to embrace Voldemort's bigoted teachings and join his circle is the reason I'm dead, the reason my husband is dead."

"I was angry with you. That's the only reason I joined the Dark Lord! None of it was real, I swear to you, Lily."

"You still followed that mad man. You still did everything he asked of you and in the process made life worse for people like me. And in the end, your spite is the reason I, like so many others, am dead."

Severus ran a hand through his long dark hair. "I tried to keep you safe. The Dark Lord promised he would spare you."

"At the cost of _my child_! Did you really think I'd do it, Sev?"

"I hoped," he whispered, his eyes downcast.

"Then I suppose you never knew me at all. You certainly never loved me."

He whipped back toward her. "How can you say that? I changed! I turned my back on the Dark Lord to spy for Albus because I was absolutely _sick_ over your death! My patronus—"

She looked him square in the eye and shook her head. "I know about all of it, and I don't care. Let's get some things straight, Sev. You didn't start spying for the Order because you changed your mind about Voldemort. You did it because he and his Death Eaters finally did something to upset _you_. It has nothing to do with the fact that someone died at his hands for his evil purposes—it's only because that person was me. Had it just been James and Harry, you'd be back in the fold of Voldemort without a second thought."

"But I—"

"There's no defending yourself on this, Sev! It wasn't some kind of moral choice. You didn't choose the light. You're just trying to get back at the one who screwed you over. Your patronus doesn't mean a bloody thing to me."

Severus staggered back, dumbfounded. "I—I—I just did what I thought was right."

"You did what was right for _you_. It's a fatal flaw of yours," Lily said with a sad smile. "You joined Voldemort when you didn't get what you wanted, what you thought you deserved. I died because of that. You've turned your back on him, but still for selfish reasons. Take a good, hard look at your life, Sev, before anyone else gets hurt because of it."

He felt Lily's words cut deep into his heart, but there was a truth to her words that he couldn't deny, no matter how badly he wanted to.

Before he could reach out and grab her hand, hug her one more time, promise that he would really, truly change for her, the scene faded to an eerie charcoal mist.

* * *

The mist cleared, and Severus found himself at the front of his classroom, the Gryffindor and Slytherin first years trembling before another version of himself.

"Merlin, not this again," he mumbled. He cringed as he watched the idiot Longbottom mouth the directions written on the board, furrow his brow, and proceed to blow up his cauldron by stirring incorrectly. His talent was wasted teaching dunces like this.

A voice to his left said, "It's shameful to see your students so afraid that they'd rather make a mistake and die than ask for your help."

Severus did a double take at the transparent yet still stern-looking woman. "Minerva? But you're not even dead! You look exactly as you did at the last staff meeting."

She arched a steel gray eyebrow at him. "And yet here I am, the Ghost of your Halloweens Present, of the anger that hardens your heart. Rather than be grateful for Albus' forgiveness and the opportunity for a second chance, you've spent the past decade furious at consequences you brought upon yourself. The resentment you feel toward your job and your own life has caused the suffering of hundreds of students that have passed through this classroom."

" _Of course_ I'm resentful!" Severus howled. "I'm a brilliant, highly inventive Potions Master, and I'm stuck teaching a bunch of children—I hate kids! Did you know that? I can't take a job with any of my former 'associates' because I need to maintain a clean image, and no one else but Albus would hire me because of my 'previous associations.' My career has been stagnating for the past decade, and I spend every day surrounded by people I don't like. What about that _shouldn't_ make me angry?"

"And you think you're the only person in this castle who's been living under less than ideal circumstances?"

"Perhaps not, but I sincerely doubt many of these brats—"

Minerva cut him off. "Just take a look around the room and tell me what you see."

Severus rolled his eyes and looked out at his students. Clouds of mists began appearing throughout the room. Though the sizes varied, every person in the room had a swirling bubble above them, including himself. In them a myriad of scenes began to play out, none of them pleasant. Threads of shame, abuse, fear, and a thousand other pains wove through everyone's stories.

He felt his eyes guided by some unseen force to the largest cloud by far, which floated over the bowed head of Harry Potter.

"Of course the Potter brat has suffered," Severus sneered, trying to look away. "I don't care how many times you force me to watch it, I won't feel sorry for him."

"Harry doesn't even remember his parents' murder," Minerva said softly. "What you see is the result of living with his aunt and uncle."

Severus shuddered as he thought of the dreadful girl he'd met through Lily. "How bad could it really—"

Without warning, he was sucked into the thrall of the bubble. It was terrible.

When he managed to extricate his mind, Severus looked up at Minerva in shock.

"I know, it's horrid," she murmured, "to think of Lily's child, living in that environment. But somehow he's managed to grow up into a mostly normal eleven-year-old boy."

He scoffed. "He's just as arrogant as his father."

"And yet no more so than any First Year," she rebutted. "When you look at him, you don't see a student, which would be bad enough, given your track record. Instead, you see a mini-James. What would happen if you started seeing him as a child who is half Lily?"

He shot her a questioning look.

"Lily is still a bit of an idealist. She wants you to change and do it for all the right reasons. I'm just after the results," Minerva said with a shrug.

"Fine. I'll treat the Potter kid better. But I maintain I've done the best job I can of teaching these imbeciles. I've yet to see any level of talent come through this classroom that I'd consider sufficient enough to bother investing in, yet day in and day out I'm required to try turning a sow's ear into a silk purse! I can't perform the miracles expected of me."

"No one's asking you to turn every student into a master," Minerva snapped. "You don't even bother teaching your students. You just write instructions on the chalkboard and assign readings and essays. We're producing fewer candidates for Aurors, Healers, Unspeakables, and other important positions because you refuse to teach Potions properly."

Severus studied her for a moment. He'd always respected Minerva because she neither praised nor criticized unnecessarily. He knew she wouldn't lie to him about something like this, even if she was a bit of a ghost at the moment. He rolled his eyes and sighed. "I suppose I can see your point. Perhaps I can make a bit more of an effort on the teaching front."

"I think that would be acceptable."

" _Fine._ "

"Fine."

He furrowed his eyebrows at her pleased tone.

"I've already told you, I'm all about results," she said with a smirk.

Before he could retort, everything around him disappeared into the same deep gray mist.

* * *

The mysterious mist lifted, and Severus realized he'd been transported out onto the Hogwarts grounds. He thought it looked like roughly the same time of year as the one he'd left, and his suspicions were confirmed by the cold highland wind that suddenly began slicing through his robes. The front gates behind him creaked, and through them walked a slightly older, translucent version of himself.

"Merlin, this is getting ridiculous," Severus muttered under his breath.

Ghostly Severus simply shot him a cold look and motioned for him to follow. He followed the apparition a bit farther down the path, and the front doors of the castle came into view. Or, at least where the front doors used to be. Now that he was closer, Severus could see parts of the castle lay in ruins, and rubble was scattered across the scarred earth around him. There were no lights on inside, no signs of life anywhere he could see.

"How is this possible?" he whispered. "What happened here?"

Rather than answer, Ghostly Severus stepped off the path and led him down toward the Black Lake. Beneath a crooked yew tree stood two marble tombs, one white and fairly well-kept, the other black and grown over. The white one had a large crack running through the top, which read, "Albus Dumbledore, 1881-1997."

Severus' stomach fell to his shoes. Albus was old, but he wasn't _that_ old. It seemed impossible that anything, even time, could vanquish such a vital, powerful wizard a few short years into the future.

Ghostly Severus continued past Albus' tomb and stopped at the head of the black one. The words Severus could make out under the layer of filth made his blood run cold: "Severus Snape, 1960-1998."

"I don't think I require an introduction," Ghostly Severus rasped, "but we must observe the formalities. I am the Ghost of your Halloweens Yet to Pass, of the seeds you have sown and shall soon reap. I and my fellow spirits have come to warn you, Severus Snape. The jealousy, selfishness, anger, and resentment within you have caused those around you much pain. It is not, however, the greatest legacy you will leave. If you continue on this path, your attitude—the same attitude you have helped foster among your students, of arrogance and hatred—will lead to your own death and the demise of countless others."

Ghostly Severus began to turn away, and Severus called out after him. "Wait! Don't leave me here alone. Aren't you going to tell me more? Aren't you going to try to convince me or something? What about more proof? Wait!"

The figure turned back and gestured toward the scene around him. "Is this not evidence enough for you?" he asked in a hard voice. "Change your heart, Severus Snape, or see the end of the world as you know it."

The scene was again lost to the mist, and the gray miasma began to tumble and whirl, swallowing Severus whole as he screamed into the abyss.

* * *

 _November 1, 1991_

Severus bolted upright in his bed, his heart pounding. It had all been a dream. Thank Merlin, it was just a dream.

He quietly went about his morning routine, lost in thought as he ate breakfast in silence and sat alone in his office trying to prepare for another day of lessons. The previous night's dreams, or visions, or whatever they were weighed heavily on his mind and made it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

When it was finally time for his first class to begin, he walked to the front of the room and looked out over a class of First Years clad in red and green trimmed robes.

"Good morning, class," he said somewhat stiffly. He rolled his shoulders and, with great mental effort, put a smile he was sure looked more like a grimace on his face. "Let's start with a quick review of the assigned reading, shall we?"

The students shared a long moment of confused glances. He coughed harshly, and they all turned back toward him, fear written plainly on their faces.

Severus started to smirk and then thought better of it. "Baby steps," he whispered to himself. "Baby steps."


	24. Consumed

**Written for QLFC, Finals**

 **Seeker, Wigtown Wanderers**

 **Prompt:** an element from Good Omens by Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman — I used the quote "She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful: something to be admired from a distance, not up close." for inspiration.

 **Word Count:** 1140

 **Author's Note:** So I don't normally write Death Eaters. In fact, other than Snape and Draco, this is my first foray into DeathEaterdom, so I'm equally nervous and excited about that. From the research I did, I found that Bella likely attended Hogwarts beginning in either 1962 or 1963 (I chose '62), and I made Rodolphus the same age.

* * *

Consumed

"She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful: something to be admired from a distance, not up close." — Good Omens, Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman

* * *

 _September 1, 1964 — Third Year_

As they boarded the Hogwarts Express together, a simple, unimportant thought flashed through Rodolphus' mind: he had never considered Bellatrix Black very pretty.

The Blacks were known for their cunning and impeccable bloodlines, not their beauty, but Bella's sisters seemed to do just fine anyway. Andromeda's coloring was less harsh than most Blacks', and something about her face was soft and almost too pleasant. Narcissa, on the other hand, took after her mother, all sharp lines and pale features and shiny blonde hair that turned every head.

Bella was a study in contrast. Her wild, dark hair stood out starkly against her ghostly skin, and even her mother's harshest charms couldn't tame it. Her eyes were large, her nose pointy, her jaw strong, and her brow heavy. All her features seemed to express themselves in the extreme. Combined with her powerful personality and infamous cruel streak, the overall effect was intense.

No, Bella Black wasn't _pretty_ , but that's not to say she was unattractive.

Something about the way Bella held herself, even at thirteen, was compelling. It was as though she had a magic all her own, a charisma that made even adults take notice. But beneath her charm, Rodolphus could always feel a current of tension, like danger and destruction were destined to follow wherever she went. She was electric.

He didn't want to admit it, but just being around Bella was a heady feeling. Thirteen-year-old Rodolphus wasn't sure what that meant in the grand scheme of things, but he knew he wanted to watch and find out. He would do it from afar, though. He could already sense that being too close to Bella Black would get you burned.

* * *

 _November 26, 1966 — Fifth Year_

As he wound his way through the warren of corridors in the dungeons, Rodolphus rounded the corner to find Bella Black standing over a trembling figure, a small group of Slytherins circled around her.

He walked up to Evan Rosier and nudged his elbow. "What happened here?"

Rosier snorted. "Mudblood was dumb enough to be wandering around down here and then got the bright idea to say something to Black. She burned him pretty badly, and now she's got him under the Cruciatus."

Rodolphus looked at the person lying on the floor. Even through the tremors of the Cruciatus Curse, he could see the left sleeve of the boy's robe was still smoking, and his forearm had an angry red burn slashed across it. A shudder of pride and lust rippled down Rodolphus' spine as he watched Bella continue to unleash her fiery temper. He loved the way she towered over her prey, powerful and fierce. She was in her element, and she was stunning.

The boy writhed in the dirt for several long moments before Bella lowered her wand. As the shuddering stopped, she raised her wand again, and Rodolphus heard her murmur the incantation for a memory charm. With one last flick of her wrist, Bella Confunded the boy and sent him away. Rodolphus knew he would have no memory of his torture or even the conversation with Bella. His only souvenir would be the burn on his left arm and a few lingering convulsions.

"Perhaps that will teach the filthy creature a thing or two about how to speak to his betters," she said, loud enough for all her housemates to hear.

Bella met his gaze across the ring of people and smirked, her own eyes blazing with a smug self-righteousness. This was a girl—no, a woman—who knew she held power in excess and wasn't afraid to use it for her cause. The rest of the students looked at her with a mixture of awe and fear, but in that moment, Rodolphus felt a burning conviction. He would talk to his father over Christmas about petitioning the Blacks to marry Bella. He had to have her hand. He had to have _her_.

It was only fair, he rationalized. She had ensnared his soul long ago.

Rodolphus knew his friends would try to warn him away from being with Bella. They'd seen what she could do, what she was capable of. Like broken records, they frequently told him she was headed down a dark road and asked if he was willing to walk it with her. Every time, Rodolphus just scoffed.

He wasn't blind. He could see there was no light on Bella's path because she didn't _need_ one—the fire in her was more than enough. And he would run willingly into the darkness with her as long as he had the flames of her zeal to light the way.

He only hoped he could withstand the heat.

* * *

 _October 31, 1968 — Seventh Year_

As he watched, Rodolphus could feel the inferno of passion rolling off Bella Black in waves. That kind of heat should have told him to walk, no, _run_ away. Instead, he edged closer. Always closer.

Merlin, he _wanted_ her. He'd felt his entire life that she was as attractive as she was intense, but it still amazed him how alluring her unbridled spirit was—how intoxicating her mere presence could be.

His betrothed stood in the middle of the Slytherin common room, bemoaning the current state of their world and gesticulating wildly, and Rodolphus thought she had never looked more beautiful and intimidating than in this moment. She didn't look to him for support or approval. She didn't need that from anyone. Surrounded by her peers, preaching the importance of blood purity, Bella looked like a queen or a priestess of old. Her wild hair gleamed in the firelight, and her dark eyes shone with conviction. Her magic crackled in the air around her, fierce and untamed. With just a few words, Bella had the entire room entranced. The circle of students gathered around her leaned ever closer, as if moths drawn to a flame.

Not that Rodolphus could blame them.

She was fervor. She was fury. She was fire.

And he was burning alive.

Rodolphus knew that being involved with Bella Black would, in all likelihood, end poorly for him. Even though he held the very same convictions, _she_ was the one with the indomitable zeal. He could love her with all he had, but she would always love her ideals more. When the opportunity came to devote herself wholly to her cause, and Rodolphus knew that it would someday soon, she wouldn't hesitate to leave him behind.

It was what he both loved and hated most about her.

With every passing day, he found himself swallowed further by the passion blazing in her eyes. With every passing hour, he found himself even more consumed by her fire, walking ever deeper into the flames. Inevitably there would be nothing left of him except ashes.

But how sweet it was to burn.


	25. Ordinary Happiness

Team: Wigtown Wanderers

Position: Beater Two

Prompt: Mediocrity

Bonus Prompts: (setting) Room of Requirement; (animal) swan

Word Count: 2009

Warnings: Character with low self-esteem

* * *

Ordinary Happiness

Neville paced quickly in front of the blank expanse of stone. _I need a place to practice,_ he thought, screwing his face in concentration. _I need a place to practice._

After a few passes, the familiar door appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Glancing around to make sure he didn't have an audience, Neville ducked inside. The usual pillows and dummies lined the edge of the room, ready and waiting for a member of Dumbledore's Army. The air here felt warmer than the rest of the drafty chambers in the castle—almost as if the room was trying to bolster his spirits. This iteration of the room was smaller than usual, too, but that didn't really matter. Neville only needed enough space for one.

Harry said that, in order to be effective, the Patronus Charm required the caster to draw upon a single, very happy memory. Neville had tried several different memories over the course of the DA meetings, but he hadn't been able to produce even a small spit of silvery mist.

He refused to give up, though. This was his big chance. If he could figure out how to cast a corporeal Patronus before the end of the school year, maybe Gran would finally be proud of him. She loved him, of course, but it wasn't the same as being proud of him. He would finally prove to her that he wasn't the most mediocre wizard in the family.

He just had to choose the _right_ memory. Neville took a moment to center himself and tried to remember the moments he'd felt happiest.

He'd heard Seamus and Dean talking about their happiest memories—Seamus' was seeing Gryffindor win the Cup during First Year, Dean's was learning that he was a wizard—but Neville had always belonged to the magical world, and England hadn't won the World Cup in ages. Still, he could try something in a similar vein. Maybe the memory of being sorted into Gryffindor, just like his father…

"Yeah, that could work," he muttered to an empty room.

Raising his wand, Neville summoned the memory of the hat falling down over his eyes and digging through his head. He closed his eyes, waiting for the surge of pride and relief that followed the cry, "Gryffindor!", then…

"Expecto Patronum!"

Neville's nerves tingled as he hoped for something, anything to emerge from the tip of his wand. He thought he _might_ have seen a wisp of silver, but he wasn't sure. He pulled a bar of Honeydukes Best from his pocket, took a large bite, and chewed thoughtfully.

He could try taking a page from his teachers' book. Neville had no idea what memory Harry would be drawing from, but he assumed Hermione's happy memory was related to the thing she was most proud of: academics.

Neville knew he was a rather lackluster student in every subject except Herbology, which Gran said was a waste of time. Still, he racked his brain for his best moment in that class. There was always Third Year, when he earned the same marks as Hermione on their final exam…

Drawing on that feeling of accomplishment, Neville raised his wand and shouted, "Expecto Patronum!"

It felt so right that, for a split second, Neville actually held some hope that he would finally be able to cast the spell. A heartbeat later, his wand dropped to his side, and his heart followed suit.

Neville scrubbed a hand down his face and fought back the urge to scream. Why couldn't he get this right? Why wasn't his memory good enough? Why wasn't _he_ —

The door behind him opened with a creak, and Neville froze.

"Oh, I'm sorry," came a soft, feminine voice. "I didn't think anyone else would be here. I'll just…"

He turned to see a red-faced Cho Chang reaching for the doorknob.

"You don't have to leave!" he blurted out. He felt all the blood in his body rush to his cheeks. What in Merlin's name possessed him to do that?

Cho raised an eyebrow at him.

Before he could actually follow through on his wish to disappear, a thought popped into Neville's head. "What I mean to say is, uh, maybe we could practice together? I assume you're here to work on the Patronus as well."

Cho nodded slowly. "I can produce a corporeal one, but I can't do it on a consistent basis. I need to be able to do it flawlessly. Ravenclaw standards and all."

Neville thought the need to perfect the charm was more rooted in her desire to impress Harry than in her house pride, but he didn't care. He had someone else to help him practice. He nodded and retreated to one half of the room, which now seemed just a few feet larger.

Cho strode to the other end of the room and raised her wand. With a determined look on her face, she firmly said, "Expecto Patronum."

The mist emanating from her wand hesitated for a moment before coalescing into a large silvery swan that floated gracefully around the room. Neville's heart felt a little lighter than it had since entering the room, and he almost didn't notice the flare of jealousy in his stomach.

She smiled at him, confidence gracing her features. "Your turn."

Neville scrambled to find another happy memory to try. There was that time he actually got good marks on a brewing assignment in Potions, or the time that—

Cho's voice cut through the fog of Neville's thoughts. "Having trouble picking a memory?"

"Uh, yeah." Suddenly the cracks in the floor were quite interesting. "I've tried a lot of different ones, but I can't seem to find one that works for me."

She opened her mouth to say something but quickly snapped it shut. Instead, she considered him for a long moment.

"Tell me about the ones that didn't work."

Neville's eyes widened. How was reliving all the times he failed supposed to help?

Before he could object, she said, "Just trust me."

Maybe there was something to divination after all.

Neville dutifully went through the list of memories that had failed him, and he could practically see Cho taking notes in her head.

"Okay, I can work with that. Just one more question, though. Why are you working so hard at this? There's no shame in not being able to form mist, let alone a corporeal Patronus. A lot of witches and wizards, including other people in the DA, can't produce anything."

He studied her intently, searching for any trace of guile. He was hesitant to trust a girl he didn't really know with such a painful truth, but something in her eyes assured him she was absolutely sincere. Neville took a deep, steadying breath. "Because I'm tired of being the butt of every joke. I'm tired of the fear that I'll never live up to expectations. I'm tired of everyone I know, from Malfoy to my Gran, thinking I'm a mediocre wizard.

Cho barked a short, harsh laugh, and a chill ran down Neville's spine.

She saw the flash of hurt in his eyes and immediately waved it away. "I'm not laughing at you, per se. I'm just remembering. Do you know what the definition of mediocre is, Neville?"

"It means you're pants at everything."

Cho shook her head, her long black hair rippling with a lightness he didn't feel. "Mediocre, in its truest sense, means average. Of moderate quality or ability. Fair, middling, _ordinary_. And there's nothing wrong with being normal, you know. It's only an insult if you're trying to be better than everyone else."

"But how—"

"It's a lesson every Ravenclaw has to learn at some point. No matter how good you are at something, you can't be the best at _everything_. Though when I consider the people you have classes with, I can understand how you missed it. Obviously Granger is an exception to the rule—"

Neville did his best not to smile at the jealousy and note of grudging respect in Cho's voice.

"—and it's hard to see past Harry's extraordinary abilities. Even Weasley has his moments of brilliance. I swear, it's like those three don't even have to ask or try for it." Cho waved that thought away. "But the rest of us? We all exist as a lesser deviation from the norm, each with varying potential to achieve greatness. But I'd say you have a pretty good shot at being exceptional as well."

"Me?" Neville squeaked.

"Of course," Cho scoffed. "Everyone knows you're second only to Granger in Herbology. You work so hard every meeting that one might think you're a Hufflepuff, except we all remember the story of how you stood up to Harry, Granger, and Weasley in your First Year, which took a lot of guts even then. So no, you're not the Boy Who Lived or one of his sidekicks, who've had this mantle of greatness thrust upon them. None of us are. For the most part, the rest of us are ordinary, average, _mediocre_. We have to be in order to give the word exceptional any kind of meaning. But that doesn't mean mediocre is bad, and it doesn't mean that you're mediocre at everything."

Neville staggered back a step, trying to wrap his mind around what Cho was telling him. "What are you saying? That I'm normal and that's okay?"

"Yes," Cho said slowly. "Now let's apply that line of thought to our current endeavor."

Despite his best efforts, he couldn't keep the look of confusion off his face.

She took a deep, calming breath and looked him square in the eye. "I guess I'll just spell it out for you. What I'm saying is that you don't have to prove anything. Try to master the charm because you want to, not because you feel like you have to do it to make someone else proud. That's the problem with your memories you know."

Neville's train of thought took a hard left, leaving his mind reeling. He remembered why he had such a difficult time talking to Ravenclaws now. So many logical leaps, so few explanations. "I don't understand."

"Damn it. Think! What did all your memories have in common?"

"They…" Neville chewed his lip. "I achieved something in all of them. That's why I was happy."

"You weren't feeling _happy_ ," Cho argued. "You were feeling proud or relieved, like you were finally living up to the standards someone else had set. Your magic knows the difference, which is why I think your charm wasn't working. This time, I want you to think of a memory where you aren't trying to be something or someone. Just think of a time that you were actually really happy."

Neville raised his wand, but Cho gently pushed his hand down.

"Let me cast one first. It's easier to produce something if you're already feeling the effects of someone else's Patronus."

With that, Cho recited the incantation, looking quite pleased with herself when a fully formed swan floated out of her wand.

The swan swam circles around Neville, filling him with peace and joy. When the swan dissipated, Neville pulled out his bar of Honeydukes Best and offered Cho a square, which she took gratefully.

Licking the corner of her mouth, Cho said, "Alright, Neville, you're up. Take a deep breath and think happy thoughts."

Neville considered the things that made him happiest and, in a stroke of rebelliousness, decided not to choose a single, very happy memory like Harry said. Instead, he focused on the feeling of being in the greenhouse early on a Sunday, listening to the rain plink off the glass panels as he dug merrily in the dirt. The thought wouldn't be special to anyone else, but to him it was pure joy.

With a slight smile on his lips, Neville raised his wand and murmured, "Expecto Patronum."

To his delight, a good sized stream of mist poured from the tip of his wand. It wasn't the fully formed animal he'd first hoped for, but it was a very good start. He knew he would continue to practice, of course, but only because _he_ wanted to. After today, Neville felt a little less pressure to be anything other than his happy, ordinary, mediocre self.


End file.
